


bad blood (mad love)

by Damkianna



Series: it's a love story [1]
Category: Battle Creek (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Case Fic, Community: battlecreekmeme, M/M, Partnership, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 00:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4686050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Russ meets Milt's ex-boyfriend on a Tuesday. (It's lucky Russ already hated Tuesdays, or that would be one more thing to add to the list of Shit About Russ's Life Milt Chamberlain Has Ruined Forever.)</p><p>Written in response to the battlecreekmeme <a href="http://battlecreekmeme.livejournal.com/1092.html?thread=2628#t2628">prompt</a>: "One of Milt's ex bfs comes to Battle Creek. Russ's response is up to you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	bad blood (mad love)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Battle Creek fic, and I ... did not intend for it to be quite this long. Thank you SO MUCH to the original anonymous prompter for this gloriously inspiring and open-ended prompt, and to both [PhoenixWytch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixWytch) and another anon commenter (also the prompter? I'm not sure! **ETA:** Not the prompter! [girlwiki (Aachren)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Aachren/pseuds/Aachren), as it turns out! THANK YOU) for all their encouragement while I was posting this as a WIP. ♥!
> 
> This is set somewhere near the end of the season, before the finale but after Font recovered from his head wound, in an alternate universe where Holly and Coffee Shop Guy worked things out to their mutual satisfaction pretty quickly. I know nothing about police work, crime, or the intricacies of cartel operations except what I've "learned" from police procedurals, and this wasn't originally supposed to even have a case attached but it grew one partway through. It was also posted over the course of several months in 16 parts + an epilogue, and has only been lightly edited. Apologies if the seams show! And sorry also for the pacing, especially near the end—I just COULD NOT get these jackasses to kiss any faster. /o\
> 
>  **Warning** for brief ableism in dialogue relating to mental illness: the words "crazy" and "schizo" are used casually by an OC at one point.

  


  


Russ meets Milt's ex-boyfriend on a Tuesday. (It's lucky Russ already hated Tuesdays, or that would be one more thing to add to the list of Shit About Russ's Life Milt Chamberlain Has Ruined Forever.)

Russ doesn't know that's what's happening, at first. He hit a pothole on the way in and half-spilled his coffee—fucking Tuesdays—and he's scowling and dabbing at the stain that's starfishing across his shirt when he nearly walks into some dumbfuck who thinks it's a good idea to stand around right in the middle of the lobby at 9 AM.

"What the f—"

"Oh, hey, Russ," Milt says, from the dumbfuck's other side, in that obnoxious way he has: like maybe if he just applies it vigorously enough, the damp washcloth of his lukewarm congeniality is somehow going to be sufficient to douse the raging inferno of Russ's hate. Asshole.

"Oh, hey, _Milt_ ," Russ spits, revving up. If this argument gets bad enough, maybe Russ can even get away with throwing what's left of his coffee at Milt. The only thing that makes a case of cold coffee shirt better is sharing it.

But he doesn't get far, because at that point the dumbfuck swings around to face him, beaming, and says, "Detective Agnew! What a pleasure—Milt's said nothing but good things."

Or at least probably that's what he says. Russ can't swear to it, because all he hears when this guy opens his mouth is a kind of high-pitched buzzing sound. Milt's bad enough, but this tool? Jesus _wept_. Russ is downright wordless, faced with the sheer head-to-toe _beigeness_ of this dipshit. If the IRS and the FBI had some kind of bland, aboveboard, thoroughly-regulated affair in triplicate, the resulting agency's desk jockeys would take one look at this guy and decide he was too boring to work there, and they _wouldn't be wrong_.

"Do you keep a carpenter's square in your bathroom, or do your lapels do that all on their own?"

The dumbfuck's pleasant expression doesn't even falter. "Sorry, what?"

For all the other things that may be said about him—that Russ will say and has said about him, at length—Milt is not a dumbfuck: he steps in, flashing Dumbfuck one of those bullshit smiles people always use to try to paper over the cracks Russ puts in their conversational plaster. Which is usually a lost cause, but Milt's bullshit wallpaper smiles are industrial-strength. "Russ," he says, "this is Special Agent Hartley. He was—a colleague of mine, back in Detroit."

That's the first clue Russ misses, that fucking _pause_ that suddenly gapes open right in front of "a colleague"—and _colleague_ is the second clue, because nobody ever calls anybody that unless they've fucked when they weren't supposed to at least once. But Russ is still thinking about his shirt and his coffee and the hundred ways this beige-ass douche is about to ruin his Tuesday, and he barely notices. "So the Bureau's not done pissing down gifts on us here at the Battle Creek PD," Russ says. "It's always the day you leave your umbrella at home, isn't it, Special Agent Hartley?"

  


*

  


Somehow they all get upstairs without Russ dumping his coffee on anybody or strangling The Beigest of Them All. (This despite how the guy is literally _wearing a noose_ , Windsor-knotted. The temptation is incredible.)

Milt introduces His Beigeness around, and the clues are flying thick and fast. Russ even clocks some of them, idly, all without actually reading what they're spelling out: the way Hartley keeps saying how good it is to see Milt, how well Milt's settled in here, and what happens to Milt's face each time he does; the way Milt reaches out to guide Hartley forward, hand heading for the small of his back—and then reversing course partway there, dropping awkwardly back to his side. (Like Milt— _Milt_ —is second-guessing himself. As if.)

"So you guys were—partners?" Font's saying, as he reaches out to shake Hartley's hand.

There's a sudden weighty silence, and _this_ one, Russ can't help but notice; his gut lurches, foreboding, and he is suddenly, terribly, perfectly aware that whatever breaks this silence is something he will never be able to unhear.

"Yes," Hartley says, smiling, and then glances at Milt—asking permission?—and adds, "In more ways than one."

Fucking Tuesdays, Russ thinks.

"You, uh—oh," Font says, blankly. "Oh, okay."

Holly, next up in the handshake line, has frozen with a smile halfway in place, eyes widening. "I'm—sorry, excuse me," she says, "but did you just say—you and Milt, you—?"

Hartley doesn't even look _awkward_. He just keeps smiling, like he outs his ex-boyfriends at work twice a month to keep in practice. "Yep," he says, and then shoots Milt this totally weird look, tense and a little sad even though he's still fucking smiling. (Does he even know _how_ to stop smiling? Is his stupid Ken doll face _literally_ made out of plastic?) "Didn't work out, but we're still friends."

Of _course_ they are. Christ.

"Oh," Holly murmurs distractedly—and then shakes herself and refocuses on Hartley. "Well! It's lovely to meet you, Special Agent."

"Please," Hartley says brightly, "call me Jake."

It's at this moment that Russ realizes he's crushed his coffee cup, and the dregs are dripping steadily onto his right shoe.

  


*

  


He escapes to the bathroom—the one in the PD's part of the building, shitty cracking tile and cheap brown paper towels, because Milt and his resident office and its four-ply can go fuck themselves.

And then they can go fuck Milt's beige ex-boyfriend. Fuck.

Russ dumps the coffee cup into the trash can and then tears off some paper towel and props his foot up on a sink. The coffee's dribbled down the side of his shoe, Russ must've left a trail of coffee-edged footprints behind him—if only he _had_ used the bathroom in Milt's office, he could've really broken in their pristine FBI carpeting.

A welcome present for Special Agent Hartley, Russ thinks grimly, and then goes cold—but no, when he rewinds through all the blathering he'd tuned out, the word "transfer" doesn't pop up anywhere. Must be something else: the feds opening up a cold case of Milt's, maybe, or sending Hartley by to consult. Whatever. Doesn't matter. Russ balls the coffee-soaked paper towel up tight and pitches it, sharp, so it hits the side of the trash can with a thunk before tumbling down.

Maybe that's what covers up the sound of the bathroom door opening. Point is, Russ doesn't hear anyone come in, so the first he knows of it is when Milt says, "Russ—" and Russ practically jumps out of his shoes.

"Jesus, Milt, wear a bell," Russ rasps, clutching his chest—right over the coffee stain, he realizes, when his still-damp shirt sticks to his fingers.

"Sorry," Milt says, hands raised palm-out, and he sounds so sincere that Russ's eyes narrow. No way is Milt apologizing to him that good over sneaking up on him by accident.

"What is it, Milt." It's not a question.

Milt's gaze cuts sideways. "You aren't going to like this," he says, as though that's news—as though Russ has ever liked anything Milt has ever said to him in the history of ever. "Agent Hartley came for a reason, Russ. There's a case—"

"No. No fucking way, no _way_ am I getting in a car with that guy—"

"Look, Russ," Milt begins, in his most reasonable voice—he's got the frown down, too, that third-grade-teacher TV-mom frown, the line between the brows: _I don't know why you always have to make everything so difficult, Russell_. And then he reaches out for Russ's shoulder, presumably to grip it in a reassuring, partner-y fashion.

Russ sees it coming like a car wreck, like the pieces of a case right before they all slot together into certainty—sees it coming but can't stop it. Milt reaches out for him; and he freezes and then jerks away, hard, almost slamming his elbow into the paper towel dispenser.

For a split second, the conclusion Milt's drawing is written all over him; and Russ could fix it, could explain, if he only found the right words. But he doesn't, and the split second passes, and Milt's face goes cold. "Oh," Milt says, almost under his breath, and then straightens up until every line of him is crisp, fresh out of the box. "I see," he adds, flat, pulling back his hand—he straightens his cuff, systematic and precise, and then smooths down his tie. "I see," he repeats, and then shoves the bathroom door open.

"No, wait," Russ says, too late—or maybe he only manages to mouth it, but either way Milt doesn't turn around. The bathroom door bangs shut behind him, and Russ stares at it for a second and then says, "Fuck."

  


  


* * *

  


  


It's a good half-hour before Russ manages to get a grip on this thing that suits him. It doesn't matter whether Milt thinks Russ is a homophobe, because he _isn't_ ; and it doesn't matter whether Milt dislikes Russ, because he _should_. That's what Russ has wanted this whole time, after all—for Milt to admit that he hates Russ as much as Russ hates him, for him to quit pretending to care about what Russ is thinking or feeling.

Admittedly, he's only at that point because he's misunderstood Russ completely. And it's totally understandable that Russ finds himself rebelling against the idea of leaving it at that. He wouldn't have made it as a Battle Creek detective without a fundamental burning desire to set the record straight. Actually, on second thought, Milt's trapped him pretty good. Either Russ goes to an effort to make it clear he's not a homophobe, which is a decent enough thing to do that Milt might start pretending to like him for it all over again; or Russ doesn't and Milt dislikes him for a reason so perfect Milt couldn't have _picked_ a better one—Milt keeps all the points he's already got from sticking out the rest of Russ's jackassery, and then nets extra for finally, tragically, nobly drawing the line at homophobia.

Asshole.

Re-armed, Russ slinks out of the bathroom, and almost immediately runs into Jacocks in the hallway.

"Dude," she says, eyes huge, "I know people say this to you so often you're probably numb to it, but, seriously: what is your problem? Milt's boyfriend seems like a good guy."

" _Ex_ -boyfriend," Russ snaps, and then grimaces. "And 'boyfriend' is a stupid word, they're both at least thirty-five—"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Jacocks says brightly. "Would you prefer 'virile lover'?"

Russ glares. "— _and_ you think _Milt_ is a good guy, so your judgment is obviously completely terrible. What's it to you, anyway?"

"Well, I don't know exactly what you did to him," Jacocks says, "but Milt is actually _upset_."

Her eyes are still huge, and also kind of shiny—she looks _worried_ , Russ thinks, and feels his gut lurch again.

"Like, _really_ upset," Jacocks clarifies, when Russ says nothing. "Holly smiled at him and he didn't smile back, not the littlest bit, not even just to be polite. It was freaky." She crosses her arms. "And he was fine until he followed you out of here. I'm not a detective for nothing. You broke Milt, Russ."

Russ scoffs. "He's not _actually_ a wind-up toy, Erin," he says, "despite his own best efforts—"

"You broke Milt," Jacocks repeats, unmoved, and then jabs a finger toward Russ's nose accusingly and raises her eyebrows. "And it's up to you to fix him."

  


  


* * *

  


  


Russ can see into the resident office from his desk. He's not _looking_ , okay. He can just—see into it, by chance. When he's facing it. Which he is. By chance.

Hartley's in there talking to the receptionist, still with that goddamn grin on his face. Jackass. When Milt's right there—not that Hartley owes him anything, if they're exes, but chatting up the receptionist right in front of Milt's office is still pretty goddamn cold—

Except Milt must not mind, because he steps out into Russ's line of sight and he's smiling, too. Maybe Jacocks wasn't wrong: there is something a little off about it, stiff—well, of course there is, it only makes sense. If he doesn't look like something's wrong, then nobody'll ask him what's wrong, and then he won't be able to explain to them how he's finally and totally justifiably giving up on Russ.

(Asshole.)

Hartley lights up like a friggin' thousand-watt, because he has exactly the kind of idiot underwear-model face that can do that, and then he reaches out and grabs Milt's shoulder.

 _Fuck off_ , Russ carefully doesn't shout, _he's your **ex**_. He can glare, though, and hey, who knows. Maybe this will be the day Russ finally develops pyrokinesis.

Milt looks at Hartley and doesn't turn the smile down—but he doesn't turn it up either, no encouragement. And then—

Then he turns his head toward the receptionist and catches sight of Russ, and Russ realizes belatedly that his glare is still jacked up to eleven. He watches with a certain resignation as Milt's face shutters. Shit. He really does need to fix this.

  


*

  


The thing is, Russ has glared at Milt a _lot_ , okay, and Milt has so consistently failed to get the hint that now that he has, it's like—Russ has been leaning on a wall, the epic and insurmountable wall that is Milton Chamberlain's relentless, excruciating, unholy goodwill. Leaning on it, shoving it, trying everything he can to knock it over. And now it's toppled; and Russ, pushing on what's suddenly a whole lot of nothing, is about to fall on his ass.

Which clearly is what Milt wants, smug jerkwad that he is, so Russ can't let that happen. Except Milt probably also wants Russ to apologize, so that can't happen either. And Russ can't exactly go up to Milt and be all, _so, that thing where you didn't mind me glaring at you because you didn't think I meant it, even though I told you repeatedly that you were wrong? You're still wrong, but can we go back to that anyway?_ He can't even offer Milt an explanation for what happened in the bathroom, because he didn't—that was just—

Whatever. Also not happening. Which means the only thing he can do to get everything to go back to normal is—

Is help Hartley and Milt with their stupid case. Dammit.

  


*

  


By the time Milt's heard Hartley out on the other side of the lobby, Russ has it all figured out. It'll be fine. It'll go just like it always does: Milt'll fill them in on the case, tell them whatever useless bullshit isn't classified and keep the rest to himself, and then he'll insist on Russ like he always does, and Russ will piss and moan like Russ always does, and then Russ will have to go anyway. He can look as reluctant as he wants. Nobody needs to know that this time, this one time, he's maybe a little bit okay with it. Just because it's the fastest way to fix Milt. He'll treat Milt like normal, and Milt's whole stupid polite-and-considerate game will mean he has to treat Russ like normal right back, and they'll solve the case together. Hartley will fuck off again, and it'll be like nothing ever happened. It'll be fine.

So when Milt steps into the PD office and everybody turns to him—he doesn't even have to call a meeting like a normal person, or send around an email, or ask Guz; he just comes in, a six-foot porch light, and the PD moths it up—Russ is ready. He's got his arms crossed, his scowl on, his chin up. It's not even hard to scoff derisively, seeing Hartley follow Milt in.

Blah blah blah federal interest blah blah blah prevent any jurisdictional dispute blah blah blah assigned to Special Agent Hartley—whatever, Russ gets the gist. He leans back in his chair and thinks about punching Hartley in the face, details as livid as his imagination can make them: the look of surprise Hartley would be wearing even as Russ's fist smashed into one of his perfect goddamn cheekbones, the satisfying ache the impact would put into Russ's knuckles for the rest of the week—

"—and we would greatly appreciate the assistance of the Battle Creek Police Department," Milt is saying, and then he nods at Guz and—stops?

Russ blinks and straightens up. He darts a glance at Guz, and it's a weird kind of relief to see that she looks a little thrown, too.

"Of course," she says, kind of slowly. "Well, we'd be happy to lend you additional manpower, if that should become necessary—and, of course, given that you're pursuing an investigation locally, you might want to have a detective along?"

Her tone is leading and she's raised her eyebrows—and Russ isn't hallucinating it, okay, even _Hartley_ is glancing back and forth between Milt and Guz like he's realized he's missing something, but Milt just nods. "Of course," he says, crisp. "You're welcome to make the assignment yourself, Commander. I'll be available to go through the case file with your detective whenever they're ready." And then he turns on his heel, sharp as a drill sergeant, and leaves.

Russ is staring, he knows he is, but he's definitely not the only one—and at least he hasn't let his mouth gape open like Font, or covered it with both hands like Jacocks.

Hartley glances around at them all, nods uncertainly, and follows Milt out; and Niblet has the grace and intelligence to wait until the door has swung shut fully behind him before saying, "Oh—oh, my—but—"

"Commander," Russ manages, "could I maybe speak with you for a second?"

  


  


* * *

  


  


Russ braces himself as he crosses the lobby. This is not going to be fun. Not that anything ever is, with Milt, but this—this is going to be a lot worse than usual.

He opens the door of the resident office—totally fucking silent on its shiny well-oiled FBI hinges, of course—and nods to today's super-hot receptionist even as his gaze automatically finds the glass wall of Milt's office. Milt and Hartley are sitting at Milt's desk, and if nothing else they at least have enough sticks up the ass between them that they're sitting on opposite sides. Thank Christ.

Milt looks up as Russ approaches the door, and his expression is—yikes. A lesser man than Russ might perhaps be tempted to bail, were that look directed at him. It's a perfect, regulation seventy-two degrees in here, Russ would bet, and yet he considers glancing sideways to check whether the glass between him and Milt has started frosting over.

Better not. Milt might take it as a sign of weakness.

Russ shoves the door open with his foot, leaving a stupendous half-sole of smudged glass behind him. Take that, Milt's stupid fishbowl office.

"Detective Agnew!" Hartley says, amiable.

"Detective Agnew," Milt says, icy.

"Yeah, hi," Russ says, and clears his throat.

Neither one of them moves as though to get him a chair—he doesn't know where the hell they'd get one, anyway, because Milt's office isn't the kind of office where you can happen across a crappy folding chair if you venture deep enough into the storage closet. So Russ clears his throat again and then leans a hip on the edge of Milt's desk.

"Do you have a message from Commander Guziewicz, Detective Agnew?" Milt asks, after a super awkward twenty-five seconds or so.

So that's how he's going to play it, Russ thinks, and shrugs a shoulder. "Not unless the fact that I drew the short straw yet again counts as a message," he says.

"The commander assigned you," Milt says flatly.

"Hey, you want to go argue with her about it, be my guest," Russ snaps. Jesus, Milt's really pushing this. Well, fine. Fine. If that's what Milt wants, then, hey, Russ can play this Milt's way. "I don't think you're going to get much further than I did."

  


~

  


_Russ follows Guz into her office, feeling half like he's just entered a confessional and half like he's been called into the principal's office. Once the door's closed behind them, Guz leans back against her desk and crosses her arms._

_"I assume you want to talk about whatever the hell just happened back there," she says, "even if you're about to pretend you don't."_

_Russ shoves his hands into his pockets and doesn't answer._

_"Detective Agnew," Guz says, not as sharply as Russ might have expected. "Is there some kind of problem between you and Special Agent—"_

_"Assign me to the case," Russ says a little too loudly._

_Guz raises an eyebrow._

_"I respect the work of my fellow officers and I respect our skill as a team," Russ rattles off impatiently, "but let's be honest with each other, Guz. I'm still the best detective in this department. Assign me to the case."_

_He stares down at the floor and waits. **Please** , he does not even remotely consider saying ever, but it's possible that Guz hears it anyway._

_"Okay, Russ," she says after a moment. "But you better get this shit sorted out, okay?"_

_"I'm trying, ma'am," Russ says—too much, shit, that was too much, but Guz just looks at him knowingly and purses her lips._

_"All right," she says, and then nods toward the door._

_Russ nods back and then turns and reaches for the doorknob._

_"Oh, and one more thing."_

_Russ looks over his shoulder._

_"Good luck, Russ," Guz says. "I have a feeling you're going to need it."_

  


~

  


Hartley's glancing back and forth between them like a bobblehead trying to follow a game of ping-pong; when Milt doesn't say anything, he clears his throat and says, "Well, we're—of course we're very pleased to have your assistance, Detective Agnew—"

Wow, are they ever past the point where that might work. Russ doesn't take his eyes off Milt. "What," Russ spits, "you think I want to be here?"

Milt looks at him like he's a stranger—or, no, worse than that, because Milt looks at strangers like he's happy they exist. Milt would never look at a stranger like this.

"No," Milt says. "I know better."

 _Hah_ , Russ thinks unsteadily. _You don't know shit._

  


  


* * *

  


  


It is a cold case, as it turns out—a _really_ cold case. A disappearance turned kidnapping, and with a minor involved, which meant it hadn't even had to cross state lines before the feds had swooped in. And then proceeded to dick around with their thumbs up their asses, doing absolutely nobody any good whatsoever, until: cold case.

Hartley's the one who sketches the outlines of it for Russ. Milt just sits, ramrod-straight, stone-silent, and Russ would almost believe he was being normal Milt levels of attentive except that he's so pointed about it—he isn't so much looking at Hartley as he is _not_ looking at Russ. And Hartley drones on relentlessly in the background: person of interest blah, red flag came up in Battle Creek blee—

Russ can't help snorting. "And you came all the way here for _that_? You have got to be kidding me. Man, this case is like nineteen years old. If this case were a person, it would already have dropped out of high school and dead-ended in some shitty job flipping burgers."

Hartley looks vaguely disapproving. "Detective Agnew, as an officer of the law, I hope you'll extend some professional courtesy towards any members of the food service industry we encounter while—"

"Oh my _god_ ," Russ says, rolling his eyes so hard it makes his head ache for a second; and then he looks back at Hartley, because—

Because if Hartley were Milt, Russ realizes, there would be something smug going on in the corners of his mouth, something that wasn't quite a smile but promised to become one eventually if Russ put in the time and kept looking for it. If Hartley were Milt, he'd look back at Russ with wide, guileless eyes, and that look would be bullshit because Milt's smarter than that, and Russ would get pissed off and yell at him, and Milt would clear his throat and adjust his tie and suggest, unruffled and superior, that perhaps they might have a better shot at solving the case if Russ shut up long enough for them to actually leave Milt's office.

But Hartley's not Milt. Hartley's not Milt, and the corners of his mouth don't do the thing, and the look on Hartley is just more vague disapproval, 100% pure grade-A twenty-four-carat FBI tool (tool? Hell, Hartley's an entire tool _box_ , a goddamn tool _shed_ ).

Jesus H., but Russ hates this guy.

Milt clears his throat. "Might I remind you, Detective Agnew, that there is no statute of limitations on kidnapping?"

It's level, neutral, totally without feeling; but it's more words in a row than he's said for about forty minutes. Russ'll take it. Milt can't ignore Russ forever. Sooner or later, Russ reminds himself, Milt is going to crack, and everything will go back to normal.

"Yeah, yeah, fine," Russ says, "whatever. So where do we start?"

  


*

  


Milt doesn't crack. Milt pretty emphatically fails to crack, and it would be impressive if it weren't so goddamn annoying. After all the times Russ has been trapped in the driver's seat with Milt strapped in next to him making socially acceptable small talk—on and on and _on_ , propelled by nothing but Russ's monosyllabic grunts and Milt's hamfisted failure to catch a goddamn clue; and this time, this _one_ time, Russ genuinely makes an effort and gets nothing but a blank fucking wall.

Exhibit A: Russ takes a few calming breaths, flexes his hands around the wheel, and then forces himself to look in the rearview and says, "So, how was, um, the trip to Battle Creek?"

"Oh, fine, fine," Hartley says, amiable.

 _Oh, bullshit!_ Russ carefully doesn't say. "It was raining cats and dogs like the last three days straight," he manages instead, and it comes out only a little bit dubious.

"Well, yes," Hartley concedes. "It was a bit damp during the drive—"

 _A bit damp_ , Russ mouths helplessly at the windshield.

"—but it was only a couple of hours. And I've always liked the rain, really—"

And that, that's just too much for any sane man to bear. "Man, if you start waxing all rhapsodic about the smell and how plants need it and the promise of new life, I will not be responsible for my actions," Russ blurts out.

"Oh," Milt murmurs, deceptively calmly. "Yes—yes, I suppose that sentiment might come across as a bit too _sensitive_ for your taste, Detective Agnew."

Shit, Russ thinks, and shuts his mouth.

Exhibit B: Russ doesn't try again, and Milt makes no effort to fill in the gap. The silence that ensues is practically Kevlar-equipped. Even Hartley doesn't try to break it. Russ catches him glancing back and forth between Milt and Russ a few times; one time, Hartley even makes eye contact with Russ in the rearview mirror, and the look on his face is almost—commiserating? God, fuck, Russ doesn't even know. _Fuck off_ , he thinks at Hartley. Whatever it is he thinks he knows, he's wrong. Asshole.

Russ pulls into the parking lot of the motel—somebody's card got used to try to pay for something here, if Russ remembers Hartley's blathering right, except it's been expired for like seventeen of the nineteen years that card's been flagged. The car rolls to a stop, but nobody moves: the silence has gotten so thick it's like tar, molasses, and none of them can quite get loose from it.

And then Hartley clears his throat. "I—don't believe I'll be needing any backup," he says, and opens his door. "If you both could just wait here for a moment?"

Coward, Russ thinks.

"Of course," Milt says, and smiles at Hartley as he passes by Milt's side of the car; and then Hartley's gone and it's just Milt and Russ, and the smile's gone too.

He's got to do it now—before the silence can re-establish itself, and definitely before Hartley comes back. He thinks of Jacocks's face, of Guz; _good luck_ , he tells himself, and then takes a deep breath and says, "What the hell is your problem?"

He manages not to wince, even though, shit, he shouldn't have said it like that. He risks a glance to the side: Milt is gazing out the windshield, mouth pursed, eyes narrowed, in a deliberate show of thoughtfulness. "My problem," Milt says slowly, tone contemplative. "My problem. My problem is that I'm sitting in a car with someone I don't especially want to speak to for the foreseeable future, Detective Agnew."

"For Christ's sake," Russ mutters. "Will you quit it with the _Detective Agnew_ crap and just tell me what's wrong with you?"

And that, maybe, is going to be enough, because Milt actually turns to look at Russ—finally!—and the expression on his face is anything but polite disinterest. "What's wrong with me? Why don't you tell me, Russ?"

Russ sniffs. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, fine," Milt says, "so we're going to just ignore it, are we? The better question here, Russ, is what the hell is wrong with _you_ —"

" _Me_ —"

"Yes, you! Whatever your personal feelings toward the revelation that I have an ex-boyfriend—"

Russ flinches—which isn't going to help his case one bit, he can already picture how Milt's mouth is going thin, but, fuck, he can't help it! Every time somebody says _boyfriend_ , Russ's brain starts veering like a drunk on a ten-lane expressway: Milt _kissing_ , ugh, God, don't picture it— _can't_ picture it, what the fuck, what does Milt even look like when he wants to— _no_ , Christ, think about something else, pink elephants, cold coffee shirt, punching Hartley in his perfect face, anything _except_ Milt kissing—Milt _kissing_ , gah—

"—and whatever your personal opinion of homosexuality," and Milt is pulling no punches, enunciating _homosexuality_ with icy crispness, "I'd at least hope that you would still be able to conduct an investigation with a modicum of professionalism—"

"Man, it is not _about_ that!" Russ snaps, slamming the heel of one hand into the steering wheel. "How I feel about Special Agent Hartley doesn't have jack shit to do with that, okay? I just hate the guy, straight up."

Milt says nothing.

"Fuck," Russ groans, "that was a bad choice of words. Look, I'm serious, Milt. I will swear to you on anything, on my overwhelming feelings of suspicion and resentment toward the universe, on every page of FBI paperwork I'll never see because some self-important jackass with a 'CLASSIFIED' stamp got to it before I did, on _anything you want_. I hate that guy because he's Satan in a beige suit, it has nothing to do with the fact that he—"

— _touched you_. Russ strangles on the words before they can get out and then coughs, psychosomatic, startled. _Kissed you_ —no, crap, that's not better. _Got to see you_ —

 _Got to see_ —

 _Was allowed_ —

Oh, fuck.

  


*

  


"Russ?"

Russ is staring blindly at the steering wheel; it takes him a second to catch up to the fact that Milt hasn't taken advantage of the pause to finish Russ's sentence for him, that Milt's frowning and reaching across the car—

Russ yanks his nearer arm away, helpless, reflexive. And fuck, shit, that's only going to make it happen again, just like in the bathroom— "No!" Russ nearly shouts, just as Milt's face starts to close up. "No, stop—look, maybe it is a little bit about that, but—it's not like you're thinking, okay?"

Milt looks at him silently, that perfect jaw working, and then he sits back and says, "But there is a problem."

Crap. Russ lets his forehead drop onto the steering wheel and closes his eyes. How the hell is he going to explain this? Sure, maybe there is a sprinkling of sheer petty jealousy involved. Like, with the whole longterm stable relationship thing, not—whatever. But Russ is a profound and complex guy, and this tug-of-war with Milt has developed _layers_. And at the heart of the whole thing, the real problem is this: nobody's been trying harder than Russ to get Milt to just show a little goddamn human feeling. And now it turns out Milt not only dated some guy but _broke up_ with him, which is the Olympic biathlon of feelings. Which means Milt does have them, in all their messy, fucked-up, frustrating glory—he just doesn't let Russ see him doing it.

Russ grits his teeth. Great, now he's pissing himself off. He's got to focus: if he doesn't fix this thing with Milt now, then when? Now, it's got to be now, or else it very well might turn into never; and the thought of ten thousand more Tuesdays like this stretching out into Russ's future, long silent shifts with Milt stone-cold in the passenger seat, is what finally makes Russ bite his lip and say: "Look, it's—you're lying, all right? You're a giant goddamn liar and I can't stand it."

Milt is quiet for a moment. "I'm lying," he echoes at last. "When I—touch you on the shoulder."

" _Yes_ ," Russ says, straightening up again. "All that buddy-buddy good-guy partners crap, it's all part of that. And it's—normally I can put up with it, okay, I can, but with that guy right here, I just _can't_."

"Russ," Milt says.

Russ tries to get the inside of his brain into some kind of order, because there's already a 70/30 chance that all of this is going to come out gibberish, and he's suddenly weirdly desperate for Milt to _get_ it. "It's—" Russ stops, grits his teeth, starts again. "You—" Fuck, this is _so_ not working.

"Russ," Milt repeats, oddly gentle.

"Look out the window," Russ manages.

Milt does—and then turns back, confused. "Russ, there's nothing—"

"I need to say this, okay," Russ forces out, "I do, I know that, but I just—I can't do it with you and your stupid soulless dead-cow eyes staring me in the face, so for the love of God and FBI regulations, whichever means more to you, _look out the goddamn window_."

Milt blinks, and then looks out the window. "Okay, Russ," he says, in his favorite freaked-out-witness-handling voice: calm, even, reassuring. Fuck, God, Russ hates him _so much_.

"Okay," Russ tells the steering wheel. "So. The thing is—the thing is, you're a person, right. You're a person and you're fucked up."

"Russ—"

"This is so not the moment for one of your little lectures on positivity, I can't even _begin_ to tell you."

Milt shuts up.

"This is just— _people_ , okay, Milt? This isn't about anybody in particular, this is just how it is. People are fucked up. Like, everybody is, one way or another, just because they're people. So I'm a person, and I'm fucked up; and you're a person, and you're fucked up. The difference between you and me is, you're _hiding_ it—and you know all this or else you wouldn't be hiding it, because you have to know about a thing before you can hide it. You have to have seen it yourself before you can start figuring out how to make sure nobody else sees it."

Milt is silent.

"And _that_ is what makes you a liar," Russ says, low. "Other people, they look at you and they tell themselves a fairytale, they do half the lying for you, because they want to think people can be not fucked up. Which is stupid, and they're all idiots. But me—I _know_ , okay? And I've told you that and you keep lying to me anyway. And that's why I don't trust you."

"Russ," Milt says; and Russ waits, staring down at his knuckles—which are knotted so white against the steering wheel that it's a wonder he can still feel his fingers—but Milt doesn't say anything else.

"I've told you that," Russ repeats, "and I've been asking you to stop. To be fucked up where I can see you. And I've asked and I've asked and you _won't_. And then—" and, shit, is there any way that's the right way to say this? "—and then I find out that you and friggin' _Special Agent Hartley_ , you've—that you let him—" _fuck you_ , except that isn't right, puts the focus on the wrong thing: whether Milt fucked Hartley or Hartley fucked Milt, whether they did it on beds or against walls or just made out on sofas like pimply teenaged virgins—none of that's the point. The point is that you can't do any of that shit with somebody without telling them the truth, even if it's only for a second.

 _That's_ why Russ can't picture Milt kissing, couldn't even if he let himself try: because he doesn't know what Milt looks like when Milt's telling the truth. But Hartley got that from Milt, got it and probably didn't even fucking _notice_ — _ **FUCK**_ , Russ thinks, picturing the word, thick-lettered and all caps in his mind's eye.

Milt doesn't say anything for a long moment. They just sit there silently in the car, side by side, not looking at each other—and then Milt clears his throat and says, "I didn't."

Russ blinks.

"That's why we broke it off," Milt clarifies. Russ dares a glance: Milt looks mostly normal, square-jawed, perfect hair, perfect profile, except he's staring out the windshield so hard it's liable to crack. "Jake didn't say it like that. But that's why." He stops and chews on his lip, and it's such a weird thing for Milt to do—composed, confident Milt, chewing on his lip—that Russ's gaze catches on his mouth. Which is possibly the only reason Russ actually understands what Milt murmurs next: "Everybody says they want you real. Bullshit."

"Milt," Russ says, but he's too slow—he gets drowned out by the door latch, and then Milt's up, out, swinging the door shut again behind him with a crisp sharp sound.

"I'm going to check on Special Agent Hartley's progress," Milt says, neutral and blank-faced like nothing's happened; and then he turns away and starts striding off toward the motel, and Russ is alone in the car.

Well, Russ thinks, at least now he knows he was right: Milt _is_ a little fucked up.

  


*

  


They're off with each other for the rest of the day, and there's jack shit Russ can do about it with Hartley there, a tall, good-looking, polite, friendly ball-and-chain. Not that there's much he _wants_ to do about it, because after that conversation he feels—drained, hollowed out. That's everything he's been wanting to say to Milt since Day 1, and spewing it all out at once like that has left him feeling odd and light and empty.

So they're not quite stuck, but at the same time they don't go anywhere, which is what the case does, too. The motel's no good, Hartley reveals when he and Milt come back, because the manager doesn't like to have to keep track of the camera's footage—the receptionist told Hartley she's only supposed to turn it on if anybody seems sketchy, and at a shitty roadside motel, the definition of "sketchy" is obviously a moving target. No other records, the guy paid in cash when the card failed, and the best descriptors she was able to offer Hartley were "tall" and "all right—but not as pretty as you, honey".

(Hartley reports this evenly, expression bland, and Russ makes a face to hint at the fact that he just threw up in his mouth a little. Milt glances at him, a touch of amusement in the way Milt's lips have pressed together—and then Milt seems to remember they're messed up today, and he looks away, asking Hartley some bullshit clarifying question.)

Hartley, of course, doesn't want to try to check any of the rooms without a warrant or whatever, and Russ doesn't even bother suggesting it. He's not in the mood for that kind of fight today—he's not in the mood for any kind of fight at all, except the one he's going to win with a sixpack as soon as he gets off shift. Christ, what a _day_.

  


  


* * *

  


  


The afternoon's wasted on FBI crap, followup paperwork for Hartley and Milt while Russ gets to make lots of fun phone calls with their half-assed description. Which he resents, obviously; but less than he would normally, since he and Milt don't have to interact. They aren't exactly mad at each other anymore, but that chat in the car wasn't the end of this, which means there's still a knock-down drag-out showdown somewhere in their future. They probably shouldn't have it at the office, and Russ doesn't _want_ to have it anywhere _near_ Hartley—but with the knowledge that it's coming looming over them, even Milt can't manage small talk that's any better than "stilted", and Russ's usual litany of insults would be all wrong.

So it's a relief to go straight from the phone calls to clocking out, and an even bigger relief to find Font waiting outside the building.

"Thought you left on time today," Russ says, instead of something mortifying like _Christ, am I ever glad to see you_.

"I did," Font agrees. "But I kind of got the impression that you might not be averse to the idea of grabbing a few drinks."

Russ looks down at himself: there's still a splotch where his cold coffee shirt has become dry coffee shirt, and his hands are fisted tight in his pockets, his knees bent—almost defensively, like he's a running back anticipating a tackle.

He looks back at Font.

Font shrugs, pokerfaced. "It's Tuesday," he says, as though that's the only thing he was thinking of, the only reason he's here. "You hate Tuesdays."

Russ stares at him, and then all at once gives up and lets himself sigh and scrub a hand over his face, the way he's been wanting to since about lunchtime. "I do, Font. I really, really do."

  


*

  


They head to their usual place, and Russ starts drinking about five seconds after their first round of beers arrives—not bottoms-up, just a slow, steady pull. Russ isn't looking to get hammered, but tonight he's in this for the long haul, for an emotional anaesthetic that will last him all the way until he topples into bed.

Judging by Font's facial expression, he picks up on this intent almost immediately. "So," he says, super casually. "Rough shift?"

Russ glares at him, but it's half-hearted, and Russ has to break it off early to tilt his beer bottle up further. "We're here to drink, not talk," he says when he's done, rubbing the back of one hand over his mouth.

"We're here to drink _and_ talk," Font says, not fooled, "or you'd've given me the brushoff and come by yourself. Come on, man, what happened?" He pauses for a second, obviously debating whether or not to actually say what he's thinking, and then flattens his hands resolutely against the table and adds, "Does it have something to do with whatever's up with you and Milt?"

Russ doesn't want to answer, except not answering _is_ an answer—especially with Font. "It's," he says, and then stops and shakes his head. More beer, he needs so much more beer.

"Hey, no worries," Font says kindly. "It can wait 'til you're drunker."

"You're a prince, Font," Russ mutters, acerbic, and finishes off the first beer with a flourish.

  


*

  


It does wait 'til Russ is drunker: it takes partway through the fifth beer for Russ to start haltingly explaining about Milt and the bathroom and goddamn motherfucking Special Agent Hartley. And it's _not_ professional jealousy, and it's not _personal_ jealousy either, okay, it's just—because Milt is fucked up, Russ knows that, and maybe he let Hartley see him fucked up or maybe he didn't, but either way he won't let _Russ_ , and it's not _fair_ —

"Dude," Font says. " _Dude_. Are you serious?"

" _Yes_ ," Russ slurs. "He's a _liar_ , Font, and he needs to stop it—"

Font lets out a long slow exhale. "Okay—okay. I get that you're stunted in this respect, Russ, I do—"

Russ fixes him with a bleary glare, but decides to permit him to continue.

"—so I'm going to use small words." Font holds up one hand, thumb and forefinger nearly touching, and then raises his eyebrows. "So everybody, and I mean _everybody_ , is, like, super weird on the inside, right?"

"That's what I _said_ ," Russ interrupts, pointing the neck of his latest bottle at Font, but Font is already shaking his head.

"No, but—small talk, politeness, all the shit you hate: that's a _favor_ we do ourselves, man. That's what you don't get. It's a gift. And the gift is two-fold, okay. Part of the gift is that we can keep our own weird from getting all over everybody—"

"No point," Russ grumbles. "Weird's _me_. If somebody likes me when I'm lying, then they _don't_ like me, Font—"

"Yeah, Russ, I know," Font says, wry and fond. "I know. And it's not just you; other people feel like that sometimes, too. But we put up with it—because the _other_ part of the gift is that it means we can keep everybody else's weird off _us_. We don't _want_ to have to deal with other people's freaky personal shit, not unless we've decided we like them enough to put up with a burst of weird now and then, and they like us enough to do it back." Font waves a hand back and forth between himself and Russ. "That's friendship, man. And that's why living together can fuck people up so much—nobody can hold the weird in all the time, and if you get somebody else's weird dumped all over you when you aren't ready, well." Font shakes his head sagely.

Russ blinks. "Okay, but I didn't ask him to _move in_ , Font—"

"But you kind of _did_ , dude," Font says. "That's the thing. You asked him for all his weird, upfront—except you aren't friends, you aren't family—"

"We're _partners_ ," Russ insists.

Font rolls his eyes. "Oh, come on," he says, "like either of you couldn't walk away if you tried. He proved today he doesn't have to ask for you, and it's not like you couldn't get Guz to insist on Milt using somebody else if you wanted to."

Russ swallows and says nothing.

"And you asked him for all his weird," Font repeats. "Which is a shit-scary thing to ask somebody for, Russ, _especially_ when they've got no reason to think you'll stick around after."

Russ levers himself up, indignant, from where he'd slumped over the table. That's just unfair—the whole point of Russ asking is because he and Milt can't ever _be_ partners, not really, if Milt keeps lying to him like this. Russ wouldn't even be _bothering_ if he didn't intend to stick around. "What—of _course_ I would."

Font's eyebrows shoot up again, and then he narrows his eyes and stares at Russ. "Well, from the sound of it, Milt didn't think Hartley would," he says slowly. "And Hartley was his _boyfriend_ , not his grumpy jackass quasi-partner who already tells him he's terrible all the time."

"He's terrible because he's lying," Russ insists. "If he'd just let me _see_ how terrible he was, then how terrible he was would be okay!"

"... All right, I think it's time to cut you off for tonight," Font says.

  


*

  


No way is Russ making Font pick him up in the morning; they sit and fiddle with their empties and remind each other of their worst old cases ("—and then you made me _collect the vomit_ in an _evidence bag_ —" "The prerogative of any senior detective.") until Russ is no longer a PSA about not even cops being above the law. Russ hardly noticed while it was there, but the gentle lift of the beer had made everything seem a little further off, a little less his problem. With it fading, he just feels tired.

Once they pay and get outside, Font stops Russ before they can split up to head to their cars.

"Russ," he says, and then pauses for a second. "Look, it's—not a bad thing, all right, you wanting Milt to feel like he can be himself around you—"

"Whoa, hey," Russ splutters, rearing away, "nobody said that, Font, what the fuck—"

"Okay, okay, sorry," Font says, raising both hands defensively, and then he quirks an eyebrow. "You wanting Milt to consider you a safe emotional space?"

"For fuck's sake," Russ says, and rubs a hand across his forehead.

"You wanting Milt to open up to you? To let you in—to be willing to share his deepest self—"

" _Font_."

"Sorry," Font says, not sounding real sorry. (Asshole.) "Look, however you want to think about it is fine. I just—I think you should also think about _why_ you want that, okay?"

Russ rolls his eyes and steps away. "See you in the morning, Font," he says. _Why_ —whatever. Russ _knows_ why. If he and Milt are ever really going to be partners, there's no other way to get there. That's all.

  


  


* * *

  


  


Russ wakes up the next morning way earlier than he wants to and a little earlier than he needs to—he reaches out, groaning, and smacks a hand in the direction of his alarm clock, and then realizes muzzily that it didn't go off. The hell?

 _Bang_ , he hears, and drags his head up off the pillow in case that was the clock hitting the floor. But no: _bang bang_ , and with the pillow no longer muffling the sound, Russ can tell it's somebody at the door.

Russ doesn't think anything except maybe a few half-formed swears—his concentration is all going toward getting somewhere close to vertical and shambling toward the door. It isn't until he opens it and looks out that it occurs to him that he maybe should have spared a moment to wonder just who the fuck was knocking.

"Ah—good morning, Russ," Milt says.

Russ is about to mumble something uncomplimentary— _nothing good about it from where I'm standing_ , that kind of thing—and then everything that happened yesterday floods into his brain in a rush, and he stops with his mouth half-open. "Uh—um—good morning," he manages, and then hisses at himself through his teeth, shaking his head. He's going to need to be on the top of his game to get through this mess with Milt, and that was just—that was the _opposite_ of smooth, Christ.

But Milt is apparently feeling merciful; he refrains from comment, and just tilts his head sideways and back in a nod toward—

A patrol car, with goddamn motherfucking Special Agent Hartley in the back seat. Russ squeezes his eyes shut and presses his knuckles to his forehead, and then closes the door in Milt's face.

Come to think of it, he's never liked Wednesdays all that much, either.

  


*

  


Once Russ has pants on, he grudgingly opens the door again and lets Milt stand on the threshold and explain: another flag's come up. On the exact same credit card, in fact, this time at a general store downtown. Which normally would only have been Hartley's problem, but Milt arranged things with Guz so the Battle Creek PD got the alert, too, and Funkhauser and Jacocks were like two streets and a parking lot away, following up on a noise complaint.

If it had just been Hartley waiting outside, Russ would've taken a good forty-five minutes digging out the exact right pair of socks, because fuck that guy—but a case is a case. After Milt gets out the first half-sentence, Russ throws a shirt on, collects his keys and his badge and his piece, and all told they're out the door and walking to the car before Milt even gets to the part about Funk and Erin.

The place isn't all that far away from Russ's, so Russ puts the lights on and they get there in time to catch the last of the action. There must have been a bit of a chase, because when Russ pulls over at the edge of the store parking lot, Funk and Erin are coming up the street from the opposite direction, toward their own patrol car, and breathing hard, each with their own shouting teenager in hand.

Russ can't pick out the words until he opens his door. "— _told_ you not to use it! It's _expired_ , you dumbass—" That's the girl, Russ thinks, toting her up reflexively: dark hair, dark eyes, 5'4" or so, at least 130.

"And I told _you_ to just cut it the fuck up! Jesus!" And that's the guy—dishwater blond, dark eyes again, maybe 5'11, probably about 170 or 180, part of a tattoo creeping out from under his sleeve. "What good is it to us if we can't _use_ it?!"

"You just shut the hell up!" the girl cries, over the steady drone of Funk Mirandizing her.

Jacocks cuts off the guy's helpless noise of outrage and confusion by shoving him into the back of the patrol car and closing the door; and then she sees Russ and Milt and nods. "Hey," she calls out, moving up around the hood to come toward them.

"Everybody okay?" Russ says.

"Yep," Jacocks says. "Neither armed. They probably could have gotten away clean if they hadn't been fighting. They were screaming at each other in the parking lot when we got here—tried to bolt when they saw the car, but it wasn't too hard to track them down. We'll take them back to the PD and get them processed for you."

"Thank you, Detective Jacocks," Hartley says, before Russ can get a word out, and Russ tries not to grind his teeth.

"Got the card?" he says instead.

"Here," Jacocks says, handing it over.

It certainly looks old enough to be the right one: the back's worn down so much that it's a little hard to see the edges of the magnetic stripe, and the strip where a signature should be has come off entirely. There was silver on the numbers on the front, but it's nearly all rubbed off, making the card number and expiration date almost unreadable. Russ squints down at the name—

"Jorge Alvarado?"

"Alias," Hartley says confidently. "One of quite a few that were consistently used by our main suspect in the case—Alejandro Velasquez."

Russ flicks through his vague memories of that epic case file Hartley'd walked him through. "The—serial kidnapper-slash-blackmailer-slash-extremely conscientious Liga Norte cartel accountant?"

Hartley nods. "Busted a lot of kneecaps when he was younger, collecting what his bosses were owed. Then his techniques—diversified."

 _You sound like a goddamn true crime book_ , Russ manages to keep to himself. Jesus, is this what it's like being Milt, all-restraint-all-the-time? How does the guy _stand_ it?

"Trail's probably cold," Milt's saying, when Russ tunes back in. "But maybe they'll at least be able to tell us where they found this."

"And why they want to keep it," Russ says, flicking a glance toward Funk and Jacocks's car. Funk's just now settling the girl into the back seat on the other side—Russ looks over in time to catch her eye, and she looks at him and then at the card in his hands and her face turns stormy.

"Keep it?"

"Didn't you hear her?" Russ says to Milt, because damned if he's answering Hartley directly. He pauses for a second, waiting for Milt to get pissy and/or call him on it; but Milt—doesn't say anything? Russ eyes him uncertainly. "It was the guy who used it here—and back at the motel, too. Mistake both times. They _know_ the card's unusable, but she won't get rid of it." He holds the card up and wiggles it. "Seventeen years expired? What the hell is she hanging onto it for?"

"Guess we'll find out," Hartley says, bright and determined—the keen spark of justice lighting up his eyes, Russ thinks, that's what the true crime book would say, and starts pondering the odds that he can throw himself through the open car window and pull away before Hartley has time to get back in.

"No lack of opportunity," Milt murmurs, frowning at the card. "They had plenty of time to find a trashcan—"

"They had plenty of time to hurl it out a window," Russ corrects. "They're criminals, Milt, they don't give a shit about littering."

"That seems like a somewhat unfair generalization," Milt says, earnest, and Russ rolls his eyes—he doesn't even realize what's just happened until his gaze catches on the windshield of the other patrol car, the windshield that Jacocks is currently giving him a double thumbs-up from behind.

 _It's up to you to fix Milt_ , she'd said, and she clearly thinks he has. Which is only reasonable, because that conversation was the best they've done since Hartley showed up—but _why?_ Russ sneaks a glance at Milt, who's rounded the car to lean down and say something to Funk. Russ knows what he did wrong, but what the hell's he done right?

  


  


* * *

  


  


Technically the kids are under arrest, though it's three-quarters bullshit, something the PD's trumped up about the scene at the general store to hold them with until Milt and Russ and Hartley can get this credit card thing figured out. Still, the kids need to get processed, and that takes a little time.

And by a little, Russ means too much: the fifth time he catches himself progressively angling his chair further and further until he can see into the resident office, he puts his head down on the desk for a minute and tries to get a grip.

Obviously Milt's not pissed at him anymore, which is—you know, fine, whatever. But that doesn't mean they're _finished_ with this shit. Milt up and ran away from Russ back at the motel, and Milt is still a liar and Russ still knows it, and they just—they _have_ to do something about this. They have to get this straightened out for real, not just pretend it never happened. It was a weird kind of relief to get that plain old _good morning_ out of Milt, but it makes less and less sense the more Russ thinks about it.

And the strangest part is that Milt doesn't seem to realize it— _Milt_ , of all people, who wouldn't let up about what happened in the bathroom until Russ finally cracked and explained himself. Russ has fucked up twice already, first by throwing that clunky _good morning_ right back at Milt and then by talking past Hartley—and Milt didn't react at all to the first, didn't lecture him or even give him a judgmental look for the second. It's like Milt thinks they really are okay, except they so obviously aren't, because how can they be when Milt's still so full of shit?

"Russ?"

Russ peels his face off the desk and squints up, because—of course—it's Milt standing over him, looking down with a carefully solicitous expression. It only takes a fraction of a second for Russ to decide. He's a detective, he's got a theory: time to collect some evidence. " _Milt?_ " he replies, with as douchey a sneer and as mockingly similar an intonation as he can.

Milt's jaw clenches, just for an instant; and then all signs of irritation smooth away beneath a surge of polite, pleasant, professional calm. "Holly stopped by on her way up from Holding—"

"Oh, hey, speaking of Holly, I've been meaning to ask you," Russ says, conspicuously casual—that tone people use when they know they aren't being casual and they want you to know it, too, while simultaneously trapping you behind the _pretense_ of being casual. Russ hates that tone; Milt had better appreciate the lengths Russ is going to, here. "That thing you said on your first day here, noticing Holly was hot—was that a lie, too? Or are you actually bi?"

Milt's blink is the only thing that makes him look startled; and the faint redness creeping up along his ears is the only thing that makes him look embarrassed. "I really don't think this is the right moment to discuss that, Russ," he says, very evenly. "As I was saying—"

"Well, yeah, I guess it doesn't matter," Russ muses, "now that she's dating Coffee Shop Guy and all. Unless you're into crashing other people's parties, if you know what I mean."

Milt's mouth twitches a little, which Russ has to admit is pretty normal when Russ is being annoying. "I believe I've grasped the crude insinuation you were hoping to make, yes," Milt says, "and I can't see that it's any of your business."

"Hey, she's still my friend," Russ says. "If you're planning to barge in—or steal Coffee Shop Guy away from her, for that matter—surely it's my duty to inform her." Russ lifts his hands and shrugs, as though helpless. "Bro code, man." He pauses and adopts a contemplative expression. "Or—lady code? Friend code, anyway. But I guess you wouldn't, huh? Great guy like you?"

And that, that's a deliberate prod, because Milt as good as _told_ Russ that he and Hartley broke up over Milt's _great guy_ act, and Milt can't possibly think Russ has forgotten. But Milt doesn't go stone-faced, and he doesn't turn around and walk off silently the way he would have yesterday. He puts on the little pinched expression that says Russ may be an immature jackass but Milt is not; and says, pointedly professional but not especially frustrated, "Jared Dunning is in Interview 1. The girl refused to give a name, and she didn't have any ID—and Holly couldn't come up with anything using her prints. She's in Interview 2."

Bland, Russ thinks. Almost beige, even. Perfectly balanced, irritated but not angry, cool but not icy. Too balanced, an experienced observer might be moved to say—as though Milt's not wrong-footed at all today, when he was just as bad off as Russ yesterday afternoon. So really it's more that Milt's just _acting_ normal, like—

Like he doesn't want to let on that Russ is talking about something that hurts him. Like he doesn't want Russ to feel any need to follow up on the conversation from the car. Like he's hoping that if he gives Russ normal—i.e., exactly what Russ was trying to get out of him all day yesterday—maybe Russ'll just drop the whole thing.

Which means that from the very first moment this morning when Milt knocked on Russ's door, Milt's been—

_—a shit-scary thing to ask somebody for, Russ—_

—Milt's been _running scared_. The whole time. And, for bonus points, lying to right to Russ's face about it.

Son of a _bitch_.

"How about we start with Interview 1," Russ says slowly, and now that he's looking, it's easy enough to see: Milt clocks the change in Russ's tone, because of course he does—he's not an idiot. But asking Russ what the deal is could potentially lead back around to The Car Conversation, and no way in hell is Milt risking that.

So Milt just looks at Russ a little too long, searching, and then covers it all up with one of those goddamn plastic smiles. "Sounds good," he says neutrally, and nods.

  


*

  


Russ's line of reasoning is that maybe Jared Dunning, who they actually know something about, can be talked into throwing them a bone when it comes to the girl in Interview 2. They don't even really need that much; just someplace to _start_ would be great. Milt peels off to go collect the case file from the resident office and Dunning's file from Holly, and Russ heads straight to Interview 1.

Hartley's standing outside the interview room when Russ gets there, and Russ braces himself for some kind of pissing contest—Hartley only ever came here in the first place for this case, no way is he going to gracefully give up his seat in the interview room to some small-town cop who's been a dick to him. But all Hartley does when Russ comes up to him is nod to the door and say, "He's ready for you."

Russ stares at him. "Are you _kidding me_?"

"A strong rapport between the FBI and local police is to everyone's benefit," Hartley says easily, because he is a perfect-haired friendly-eyed _soulless alien robot_. "By all accounts, you and Milt work well together, if not always—smoothly. And I have every confidence that Milt will keep the FBI's interests in mind as you pursue this investigation."

"Man, I don't even know where to start with you," Russ tells him, earnest, and then pushes past, shaking his head, and goes in.

  


*

  


It takes a minute for Milt to arrive with the files, but that's okay. Russ sits across the table from the kid, leaning back in his chair, and watches him without saying a word; and by the time the door finally does open a second time, the kid is visibly unsettled. Didn't start talking just to break the silence, though—partial credit, Russ decides.

"Mr. Dunning," Milt says politely, closing the door, and smiles.

The kid—Jared, Russ reminds himself—licks his lips and looks away.

"Mr. Dunning," Milt repeats, unperturbed, "do you know why you're here?"

"Guessing you're about to tell me," Jared says.

Milt rewards him for this smart-aleckery with another smile, because there's no one on God's green earth shittier at being the bad cop than Milton Chamberlain. Lucky for him that he's got Russ to back him up. (When he and Hartley were partners—Christ. What were they, Ken Cop and Kenner Cop? Then again, Russ supposes, facing both of those blankly perfect expressions across an interview table must have been scary in its own way.) "That was quite a screaming match you were having—"

"Look, it wasn't a big deal, okay?" Jared says, a little too quickly. "We're friends—it was just a disagreement."

Milt crosses behind Russ and sits; Russ just keeps staring at the kid, narrow-eyed, because Jared Dunning should know there's at least _one_ person in this room who's not going to take any bullshit.

"Didn't sound very friendly back there," Milt observes.

Jared grimaces. "Well, I shouldn't have—Dani's going through a lot right now," and yes, that's a first name, and yes, Milt noticed it, too, "and I know that. I was just frustrated, you know? And then we both kind of freaked out when you guys showed up." He shrugs one shoulder. "Doesn't mean we aren't friends."

Russ feels himself snap to attention—and this is going to lose him a bunch of bad cop points, but it's not every day a person of interest manages to make Russ's point for him. "Yeah, _Milt_ ," Russ says, sharp. "Just because people fight once doesn't mean they're done with each other."

Milt doesn't look at Russ, doesn't reply—doesn't pretend not to know what Russ is talking about, in other words, which means he gets exactly what Russ is saying and why. _Yeah, that's right: I've got your number now, dickweed._

"Your friend," Milt continues, as though Russ never interrupted, even though Jared's giving them both kind of a funny look. "Dani—is that right?"

Jared sits up a little straighter in his chair, and his gaze flicks back and forth between Russ and Milt a couple times. "Shouldn't you guys kind of—know that already?"

Russ tries to beam a command to follow the basic fucking rule of not letting anybody know what you don't know straight into Milt's brain with the power of his eyes, but Milt's too busy glancing down at the file on the table in front of him and flipping it open casually. "Dani didn't have any ID on her when she was brought in," Milt says evenly, "and we're having some trouble locating her in the system."

Christ, Milt sucks.

Jared doesn't say anything, because why the hell should he when they've just told him they don't actually know jack? But Milt seems unaffected, his gaze still on the papers in the file. "The credit card you were using at the general store, and earlier, back at the motel—"

Jared twitches, startled—Milt doesn't see it, looking down like he is, but Russ does. "Yeah," Russ says, "we know about the motel," because maybe that miniscule tidbit will be enough to freak the kid out, if they play it right.

"Why did you keep using it?" Milt says, and, fine, he's not completely useless: he sounds mild, bureaucratic, curious, nothing that'll make the kid feel defensive.

Jared looks back and forth between Milt and Russ again, and then sighs, running a hand through his hair. "It wasn't—I meant to use mine, okay? I wasn't trying to rip anybody off or anything. But Dani didn't want to lose that one, so I put it in with the others, and then I kept pulling it out by mistake—"

Russ carefully doesn't do a fistpump. "She didn't want to lose it," he repeats instead, leaning forward. "So you're saying it's hers? Because I've got to tell you, man, I find that hard to believe, unless you're telling me 'Dani' is supposed to be short for 'Jorge Alvarado'."

"It isn't—" Jared begins, shaking his head, and then he stops and bites his cheek.

"What?" Russ prods.

Jared looks at him, and then down at his own hands where they're spread flat across the interview table, and then off into the middle distance, brow furrowed. "I don't think I should tell you."

"Oh, for—look, it's not like she'll know it was you," Russ tries, even though he's not sure what the hell else _he'd_ think if he were Dani.

"No, no," Jared says, earnest, "I just—I really don't think it's my thing to tell, you know?"

Russ stares at him.

"Mr. Dunning—" Milt manages to get out, before Russ's brain re-engages.

"Are you _shitting_ me?"

"Russ!" Milt hisses, but Russ is on a roll.

"You're sitting here in the middle of a _police station_ , staring at a very upset Battle Creek police detective and a goddamn federal agent, and you're saying you won't tell us what we want to know because, what, you _pinky-swore_?"

"Russ, this is really not a very productive line of questioning—"

Well, too fucking bad. Russ is so tired of people hiding shit from him for their own bullshit reasons that he could punch someone. Or, like, ten people, if all of them were named Milt. He lets all of that show on his face as he stands, and lowers his voice to something a little bit quieter and significantly more threatening. "Look, kid, you answer me right now or I swear to you, you'll regret it."

But Jared Dunning seems to have discovered some kind of profound well of hidden resolve inside himself, the jackass. "No," he says, and then "No," again, more firmly. "You want to know about that card, you ask her."

"It's a simple enough question," Russ insists, one last-ditch effort, but Jared's already shaking his head. He's not playing anymore. And the hell of it is, it's not like he's clammed up because he's pleading the Fifth or afraid of getting himself in trouble. He's doing it because he's trying to _respect_ the _integrity_ of his friendship, and a whole bunch of other Milt words, with Dani No-Last-Name in Interview 2. Which would almost be kind of awesome of him if it weren't so goddamn stupid.

"Yeah, well, you want somebody to answer your 'simple question'," Jared says, "then ask Dani. If she decides she wants you to know, she'll tell you." He leans back in his chair and lifts his chin, defiant. "You're not getting anything else out of me."

Well, that's just great.

  


  


* * *

  


  


With Jared Dunning apparently determined to be unhelpful on principle, they've got no choice but to move on to the next, even though Russ kind of doubts that the girl's going to be all that much more forthcoming. And, yeah, when he steps into Interview 2 about five minutes later, he can't exactly claim that he's surprised to see that the look on Dani's face isn't screaming cooperative sentiment. She's leaning back in her chair, arms crossed, like she's just daring him to try asking her a question.

Luckily, Russ learned how to bullshit people from the best, and he's not above pulling that skill set out when he needs to. "So, Danielle," he says, holding the door open behind him for Milt. Which means he's turned away; and with his tone casual like he's not really paying attention, in a way that tends to grind most people's gears pretty good—

"Daniela," she snaps.

Score. _Thank you, Mom._ Sometimes an involuntary childhood independent study in cold reading really pays off.

"Daniela," Russ repeats, holding a hand up apologetically. He snags the smaller of the two folders from Milt's hands as Milt passes him and opens it as he turns to face her, trying to gaze down at Jared Dunning's rueful mugshot like it's spontaneously transformed into Daniela's vital statistics. He has to be careful, he can't risk too many more shots in the dark, but maybe— "I see we won't be needing to inform your parents—unless you'd like to use one of your calls?"

Something odd happens to Daniela's face, a quick spasm of expression like a ripple, and then it's gone and she's just staring at him grudgingly again. But it's not a clear _what the fuck_ , which is a good sign; and after a second she clenches her jaw and then she says, "No."

So at least nineteen, then, Russ thinks—but not too far off it, because Russ has seen that kind of show of attitude enough times to recognize it. It's the ones who've only just cracked eighteen, or maybe twenty-one, who always look the most like they're daring somebody to challenge them on it.

She's looking at him and Milt like she's a second away from spitting on them, but of course Milt's totally unbothered. He sits down across from her with a mild, attentive expression, sets the larger file in front of him on the table with a _thwap_ , and then smiles. "So," he says, and slides Alejandro Velasquez's credit card off the top of the file and across the interview table with a fingertip. "Your friend in the other room over there tells us that this card belongs to you. Would you mind explaining to us how you got it?"

"Unless it's just that you're such a prodigy you could open a bank account for yourself before you were even born," Russ adds acidly, because maybe pissing the girl off is the way to go.

But if Daniela's especially annoyed by Russ's addendum, she barely shows it: her mouth pinches flat, and she says nothing.

"Did you find it?" Milt suggests patiently.

Daniela stares at him and doesn't so much as blink.

"If you stole it," Milt adds after a moment, in the same genial tone, "that's okay. It wasn't smart, I'll tell you that much, but you won't get in trouble with us for it. Because we don't want to put you in jail, Daniela. All we want," and he reaches out to tap the card twice, "is to find the person this card belongs to." He pauses, and then says, more slowly, "Daniela?"

And he says it because Daniela's expression is changing: slow at first, a dam giving way somewhere, and then faster and faster even as Russ watches. She looks at Milt and then at the card, scratched red plastic against the gleaming interview table, and she bites her lip hard, brow crumpling.

"You do know whose card it is," Russ says, and it's just a hunch, she hasn't actually said anything that really gives it away, but he's _right_ , he knows he is. "Don't you?"

Daniela's sitting in her chair like a statue, no fidgeting, arms still tucked in tight; but she can't keep her eyes still, and her gaze flickers over to Russ, back to the table, up to Milt's friendly, inquiring face, off to the side—

Milt flips the file in front of him open and leafs through it, as though to politely give Daniela a minute to get a grip. But Daniela's no Jared Dunning—she'd have to be way stupider than she seems to fall for Milt's crap. Honestly, Russ is actually sort of weirdly proud of the kid for the way she drags her gaze back to Milt's face, and doesn't let the motion of his hands or the direction of his attention distract her. Good for her. Russ has always hated sleight-of-hand himself.

Milt pauses over the file, hands slowing, and then looks up again at Daniela. Only one thing left to try, Russ thinks, and Milt knows it, because they've got to get something out of this girl or Hartley's case is going to be dead in the water. "Anything you could tell us, anything at all, might be helpful, even if it doesn't seem like something worth mentioning."

"Sure," Daniela says, dry and bitter.

Milt gives her the smile again. "We aren't sure yet," he says gently, fishing a single sheet loose from the rest of the file, "but we think it belonged to this man," and he flips their one shitty old photo of Alejandro "Andy" Velasquez around until it's right-side-up to Daniela and then lays it flat on the table.

And _bingo_ , because Daniela's reaction to that is definitely not the reaction of somebody who's looking at a picture of a total stranger. She presses her lips together tight and her face screws up, and—and shit, Russ thinks blankly, _shit_. At least nineteen, he's pretty sure about that, which means nineteen years ago she was a baby, maybe a toddler, a—a _minor_ , holy fuck, and they just slapped a picture of a guy they think _kidnapped a minor nineteen years ago_ right down in front of her, because they did not think this through at _all_ —

"Do you know this man?" Milt says—carefully enough, Russ supposes, because he can see Daniela just as well as Russ can and he gets that there's something up. But there's a note in his voice, an edge of real confusion, that says he's not experiencing the complete and total earthquake of comprehension that's just rumbled through Russ's brain.

Daniela braces her hands against the edge of the table and takes a deep breath, and then another, and then her face smooths out; there's still a shadow of something wobbly happening around the corners of her mouth, a wet shine around the skin right below her eyes, but mostly she's got it back together. "That's the guy you're looking for?" she says, commendably even.

Russ nods silently.

Daniela's gaze drops back to the photo. "He always said," she murmurs, and finally unwinds one arm from around herself far enough to wipe irritatedly at her damp face. "He told me all the time that there were people after him, that they were coming for us, that it wasn't safe. I believed him, when I was a kid," she adds a little more loudly, and Milt's the one she should be trusting at this point, but she's not looking at him. She's looking at Russ. And Russ should be saying something, _doing_ something, but all he's got in his head is a gently repeating refrain of _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_.

"And then I got older," Daniela continues, "and I thought—I don't know, maybe he was a little crazy. Schizo or something, you know? I figured it was okay. He never hurt anybody, never heard voices, he was just scared all the time—it wasn't hard to handle. I'd take care of him. He wouldn't end up like those people you see on the street sometimes, yelling at strangers. I'd take care of him," she repeats, and then breaks off. Her mouth crumples up again, and she has to bury her face in her elbow for a second before she can lower her arm, suck in a ragged breath, and keep going.

"But he was right," she says, unsteady, voice creaky with swallowed tears. _**Fuck fuck fuck fuck**_ , Russ's brain shrieks unhelpfully. "He was right all along. He kept us moving, moving, all the time, but he thought maybe we were going to be okay in Michigan, that they wouldn't look there. And he _wasn't_ crazy. They were after us, and they came for him, and they killed him." She sniffs, loud and wet, and then folds her arms together again and looks Milt right in the eye. "That's my father," she tells him. "And you won't find him, because he's dead."

  


  


* * *

  


  


Daniela agrees to Milt's delicate suggestion that they take a break, and to Russ's offer to get her a cup of water, and then they get the hell out of the interview room so she doesn't see them scrambling to put the pieces together. Russ stumbles blankly to the nearest coffee machine for a cup and fills it at the water cooler, staring at his hands and listening to the sweet song of _fuck fuck fuck_ as it echoes around his otherwise empty brain; and then he almost forgets to actually go back and give it to Daniela before he goes upstairs.

  


*

  


Milt's sitting behind his desk in the resident office when Russ gets there—Hartley's looking at him and frowning, and when Russ pushes open the door, he catches the tail end of a question: "—'d she say?"

"She's the kid," Russ says.

They both look at him—Hartley's curious, obviously, and Milt's still thinking it through, catching up.

"She's the kid," Russ repeats, impatient, "she's obviously the kid. And Andy Velasquez—what? Told her he was her father?"

"Well, that's the cover story, of course," Milt says. "Guy wandering around with a kid barely old enough to talk—what else is he going to say?"

"Right, no, sure," Russ says, "but why's he _keep_ saying it?" He's distantly aware that he's started moving, pacing around Milt's office like he can figure this out if he can just catch up to it. "Why—why _can_ he keep saying it? She was with him long enough to remember him—" because _and then I got older_ , that's what she said. _I'd take care of him_ — "and long enough—long enough for him to give her that card, or for her to take it on purpose and keep it. He worked for the Liga Norte _cartel_ , Milt, he took her for ransom. There's no way he should have been stuck with that kid for more than like a week. So what the hell happened?"

"Something went wrong," Milt says, reaching for the file. "The deal, there was something about the deal—" He flips the folder open and scans through—nothing like the conspicuously thoughtful way he was going through it in the interview room. "Here: the family wasn't responsive, they were—they barely even cooperated with the FBI."

Russ shakes his head, stabbing a finger toward the page Milt's looking at. "But that's not Velasquez's problem. That's _Liga Norte's_ problem—or at least it should be, except Velasquez doesn't give the kid to them." Russ rubs a hand across his mouth and shakes his head again. "The family's not responsive," he repeats, "and—and Velasquez _knows_ that, he'd hear about it from the cartel. Because normally they wouldn't want the kid anywhere near the rest of their operation, but this time they need pressure, they want Velasquez to bring them that kid so they can mail her toes to her family in a box. And Velasquez knows that, too," Russ adds a little more slowly. "Little girl, not even two years old—the family wants to keep whatever they owe Liga Norte more than they want to get her back, and Liga Norte's going to cut pieces off her until they give up and throw what's left in a river, and Andy Velasquez—"

Russ trails off, and looks at the file—Milt set it down again but left it open, and the picture of Velasquez that they showed Daniela is still at the front, on the top of the pile. To Russ, Andy Velasquez looks hard, mean, exactly like the kind of guy who'd have Velasquez's rap sheet; but the kid in Interview 2 looked at that and saw her dead dad, and cried. The picture's old, Russ thinks distantly, from before Daniela. Did the Andy Velasquez standing there in some beat-up police station, looking tough and blinking the flash out of his eyes, ever think there'd be anybody who'd cry for him?

"Andy Velasquez keeps her," Russ hears himself say.

It's silent in the office for a moment; and then Milt makes a sudden sound, dismissive, and Russ is abruptly, weirdly angry.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Milt, I forgot—it's _your_ job to believe in the capacity of even dipshits like Velasquez to exceed expectations—"

"Look," Milt says, very evenly. "If Mr. Velasquez had hung onto his kidnap victim to keep her safe from his bosses, I'm sure that would have been very—kind of him. But seeing as he's _dead_ now, I think it's clear that he's not exactly the epitome of good judgment or critical thinking—"

"Oh, come on!" Russ says. "This guy wasn't just some dumbass who got in over his head. Velasquez was a _professional_ , he'd been pulling jobs like this for, what, twenty years? He wouldn't have panicked over a deal going south. He _chose_ this, and he knew what would happen," and a prickle of awareness crawls over Russ even as the words come out, that brain-tickling feeling of a hunch: this conversation isn't just about the case anymore. "He knew what was coming for him," Russ adds more slowly, and tries to ignore how hard his heart's started pounding. "He knew how hard it would be, he knew it might get ugly. And he did it anyway because it _mattered_ , Milt. He did it anyway because it was important, and he—he cared, all right?"

Milt's staring at him, eyes wide and dark, face unreadable—except Russ can see the moment when it changes, when the portcullis comes down and the drawbridge goes up. "He was reckless," Milt says. "Reckless and irresponsible. He took a huge risk for no good reason and it most likely got him killed—"

"Because it was _worth it_ ," Russ nearly shouts, but Milt's siege-worthy now, six feet of granite, and all Russ has is a road flare when what he needs is TNT.

"It wasn't," Milt says firmly, shaking his head. "It wasn't. How could it be?"

Russ grinds a knuckle into his eyeball and then squeezes the bridge of his nose. God, he is so fucking tired of everything right now—of Milt, of himself, of this stupid half-conversation they're not quite having and of motherfucking Hartley sitting there watching them do it. "Because _she_ was worth it," he says, dogged. "Because if nobody's worth it to you, then what is? What ever will be?"

But Milt is so far past not listening that he's basically in space. "Velasquez made a mistake," Milt says, "and it caught up to him. If he'd been smart, he'd have kept the girl out of it. But he wasn't. He was selfish and stupid and shortsighted, and now she's paying for it—running around Michigan with an expired credit card and that golden retriever we left in Interview 1, and probably half of Liga Norte on her tail trying to figure out what Velasquez did or didn't tell her." Milt pauses, deliberate, and then adds softly, " _Fuck_ Velasquez," and strides around his desk, past Russ, and out into the hall.

  


*

  


The silence after that isn't one Russ feels much like breaking. He scrubs his hands across his face and sighs, and doesn't look at Hartley, because if he looks at Hartley right now he really might punch him.

This is just—this has gotten so much bigger than Milt's stupid ex-boyfriend, so—ugly and thorny and _huge_ , big enough that Russ can't see the full shape of it: like a Monet or something, but from so close up all you can see is bumpy canvas threads and a swash of puce. Except probably not a Monet, Russ thinks. What's the guy who painted that other thing, "The Scream"? More like that guy.

And this is why Russ hates everything Milt represents, everything he chooses to be—because that's how people get stuck having fights like this, long and drawn-out and passive-aggressive, everybody talking around what they want to say instead of _saying_ it. Which really is yet another way in which _Milt's_ the problem here, Russ thinks with sudden viciousness. Maybe Russ should just take him up on that silent offer he was making all morning—treat him like normal, let the whole thing slide. Forget this "partners" shit. Wait it out until Milt leaves or starts asking for somebody else, go back to working with Font—how long could it even take?

It doesn't sound like a bad idea when Russ says it to himself like that; but he swallows once and then again and still can't get rid of the _taste_ it leaves in the back of his throat—

"I get the sense that that argument wasn't entirely about Alejandro Velasquez."

Russ blinks and lowers his hands, startled—he'd half forgotten Hartley was there.

Hartley's looking at him a little wryly, something bitter and self-conscious in the slant of his mouth, and Russ tries but can't quite manage to be pissed at him.

"Oh, what the hell do you know," Russ mutters instead, and gets the fuck out of there before Hartley can try to talk to him about his _feelings_ or something. Yeaugh.

  


  


* * *

  


  


So, all right, maybe Russ isn't going to leave it at that. Milt's frustrating and annoying and completely full of crap, and Russ would probably be a whole lot better off without him—but Russ has never been much good at letting stuff go.

That doesn't mean he's eager to track Milt down to wherever the hell he went and have it out right this second, though. He goes back to his desk instead, answers a few emails and curses halfheartedly at the stupid sticky "R" on his keyboard that's turning everything he types into some kind of endless Talk Like a Pirate Day. Like clockwork, Mrs. Seymour calls, strident with incomprehension over why _Magnum P.I._ continues to assault her eyeballs with all those short shorts ("—just not right—" "Yes, it's a crime against humanity, Mrs. Seymour, I'll get right on it—"). When Russ finally hangs up, he heaves a sigh, closing his eyes; and when he opens them again, Holly's looking right at him.

It's still a little hard to be around her sometimes, since she started dating Coffee Shop Guy properly. Russ isn't stupid: the writing was on the wall once she got back from that cruise of theirs all smiling and tan, and Russ can't even resent it, not really. Holly deserves to be happy. And with that particular door closed between them, he's discovered it's almost easier to be her friend for real, which maybe is better anyway.

It's not so bad today, at least. They used to be pretty tentative about poking around in each other's personal lives, because it seemed kind of awkward; but now Holly apparently feels no compunctions about putting somebody on hold just so she can come over and put a sympathetic hand on Russ's shoulder. "Something wrong?"

Russ eyes his own phone, where the office line Holly was on is blinking up at him balefully. "Shouldn't you finish—"

"It's Mr. Weintraut for Guz," Holly says wryly, and Russ winces. Mr. Weintraut is kind of Guz's own personal Mrs. Seymour. Mrs. Seymour likes Russ best but will settle for anybody who'll listen; Mr. Weintraut always wants to _speak_ to the _chief_. (Russ's brain fills in his intonation automatically, at this point.) "If I do anything but leave him on hold until he gives up, she'll throw her phone out the window again."

"Fair enough," Russ concedes.

Holly raises her eyebrows.

"What?" Russ says. "Nothing, it's—I'm fine."

Holly's mouth forms a skeptical moue.

"Seriously," Russ tries.

Holly leans a hip against his desk and crosses her arms. "Russ," she says, all gently. He really hates when she says his name like that.

"It's—Milt and I, we need to—talk," Russ blurts.

Holly's eyes turn round and sincere. "Well, in that case," she says solemnly, pulling out the near drawer of Russ's desk, "I've got just the thing—"

Her hand goes in and comes back out with a roll of duct tape—she has the roll in one hand, one curled-up corner of the tape in the other, and she's reaching out with both of them for Russ's face—

"Oh, har har," Russ says, sulky, and bats her hands away.

She grins at him and sets the tape down; and then her face goes serious again, and this time it's for real. "Look, if you really need to talk to Milt—you're not going to find him by sitting at your desk, Russ."

Russ grimaces and looks away. "Yeah, I know," he says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, and then can't seem to stop himself from admitting, "That may or may not be why I'm sitting here."

Holly's face goes soft and fond, because—well, hell if Russ knows.

"I just—" Jesus, Russ thinks, and bites his tongue, literally, before the rest of the words can get out; except if there's anybody in the world who gets how Russ can truly fumble a relationship in his own very special way, it's Holly. Who else can he tell? So Russ squeezes his eyes shut and makes himself say it: "I don't want to fuck this up any worse."

Holly's quiet for a moment, long enough for Russ to take a deep breath and pry his eyes open again. And then she says gently, "I was kidding about the tape, but—when you do talk to him, promise me you'll _listen_ to him, okay?"

"I listen!" Russ snaps, and after that pitiable little half-argument with Milt, it feels so good to just blast it out. "I listen _fine_ —it's not my fault Milt never says anything."

Nothing _real_ , anyway, and Holly seems to guess that's what he means, because her mouth goes tight.

"Look," she says, "Milt knows how to shut up, right?"

Russ snorts. "Yeah, I think it's fair to say he's mastered the silent treatment." And, man, what a shitty day _that_ was. Yeesh. Although if Holly thinks that's enough to, like, convince Russ to be grateful for the line of bullshit Milt's been feeding him today, then she's got another think coming—

"So if he didn't have anything to say to you," Holly says, "then he _wouldn't_."

Russ is about to come right back with an answer, quick, sharp, about how Milt can say _pages_ without telling a person a damn thing; and then he stops, mouth half-open, because—because even that does give away something, doesn't it? Yeah, Milt's hung up on all the stupid trappings of politeness, but he saves the truly meaningless blather for the times when he _wants_ to not tell a person a damn thing, when he and Russ need to distract or delay. Milt this morning had been like Milt in Interview 2: looking down at that file with such conspicuous attention, paging through it so thoughtfully. Sleight-of-hand—negative space. Trying to keep anybody from looking too close—and all that ever means is that there really is something there worth looking at. All that ever means is that that's where the trick is.

"If he's talking to you," Holly adds, when Russ doesn't start talking, "then he wants to tell you _something_ , Russ, even if you aren't sure what it is."

"Yeah," Russ allows. He'd been building up a decent head of steam there, but Holly's—opened up the vents again, or—whatever, fuck metaphors anyhow. Russ looks forward to one day being properly pissed off again, instead of all weird and weighed down and not sure what the hell he's doing. He sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. "Yeah, okay. And—and you don't think I should, like—" oh, God, Holly's going to make fun of him for this forever— "give him some space or something?"

Holly blinks, and then her lips do something weird before straightening out again. "It's great that you're considering that kind of thing," she says, suspiciously diplomatic. "But honestly? I think Milt really needs somebody to be stubborn about him right now."

Russ gives her a dubious look. "You do. Because I have to tell you, he hasn't exactly been effusive in his appreciation for it so far—"

"Right," Holly says, dry. "And I bet _you've_ never pushed anybody away just to see whether or not they'd go."

Russ closes his mouth.

"Like I said: I think maybe Milt needs somebody to be stubborn about him. And," Holly adds, a little more quietly, "God knows there's nobody better at being stubborn about people than you."

It's the closest they've come to actually talking about their whole— _thing_ out loud since she got back from her cruise. And, weirdly enough, it doesn't make Russ feel defensive or embarrassed, hearing her put it like that. A little wistful, maybe; a little sad, in an odd, quiet way. "We would've been good," Russ says, suddenly sure that it's the right moment to say it.

And it is, because Holly just smiles. "We would've been _great_ ," she corrects, easy.

"Yeah," Russ says slowly, and then, more firmly, "Yeah, okay. Thanks, Holly."

"You're welcome, Russ," she says, and leans down to press a light kiss onto his cheek.

"Holly?" Russ says, before she can get more than a step or two away.

She looks back over her shoulder and raises an eyebrow.

"Can you go stop by Interview 1 and Interview 2, see if there's anything they need?" Russ shrugs a shoulder at her. "I have a feeling maybe me and Milt are going to be a little while."

And Holly—Holly downright beams at him. "Sure thing," she says.

"Thanks, Holly."

  


*

  


Russ sits there for a couple minutes after she's gone, staring down at Mr. Weintraut's little blinking hold light on the main department line and thinking. "Okay," he tells his desk at last. "Okay. Let's do this." _Be stubborn_ —psh. Russ could do that in his sleep. And, after all, Milt _wants_ Russ to give up, which means that doing it would be letting him win. No freakin' way.

But first things first: Russ needs to work out his angle of attack, needs to come up with something new to try when Milt stonewalls him again—because Milt totally will stonewall him again, no doubt about that. That's what Milt does. Hell, he already did it with Hartley; he did it and it _worked_ , absolutely perfectly, which just makes him that much more likely to keep trying it. (So, hey, thanks for nothing, _Hartley_. Dumbass.) Which does _not_ mean Russ is avoiding anything, okay, but if he doesn't give himself half a chance at coming up with a tactical advantage, this is going to end just like the Car Conversation. And nobody wants that. (Except probably Milt. But then Milt's judgment sucking is precisely the reason why Russ now has to take charge of this whole ridiculous fight, so.)

There's a lot of places Milt might be—the resident office, Guz's office, the lobby; knowing Milt, he might very well be standing on the sidewalk outside the PD, welcoming everybody who comes in with a smile and a handshake until he feels like his good old Ken doll self again. So Russ carefully doesn't go to any of those places. He heads for the bathroom instead; and he's so busy running around in circles in his own head that he's shoved the door open and taken a step in before his brain catches up to his eyeballs.

And by then he's already fucked, because Milt has looked up and seen him, so it's not like he can just close the door again and bolt. Shit.

Russ tries to play off the moment he froze as just a hitch in his step—from surprise, maybe, because that certainly is a factor, and anyway Milt's probably not going to risk commenting on it. It's not like Russ actually needs to piss, but luckily there's still a drip or two of mayo on his collar from the sandwich he had for lunch; so he snags a paper towel from the dispenser as he passes it, and then heads for the sink next to Milt. If he just—if he just lets Milt leave and doesn't say anything, he can still get his shit straight before they reopen this lovely little can of worms.

The paper towel's clammy in Russ's fingers as he swipes at his collar, and every single movement he makes feels self-conscious and blatantly fake, like he's performing in a play. But Milt's switched off his own faucet and shaken the drips from his hands, he's reaching for the door, they're almost home free—

"What did you mean?" Russ blurts. Christ. He should have taken Holly up on that offer to duct-tape his mouth shut.

Milt freezes. He doesn't turn around; but he doesn't open the bathroom door, either, doesn't pretend not to have heard and make his escape.

"What did you mean?" Russ repeats after a second, more steadily. "When you said—when you said 'I didn't'?"

Milt's back gets straighter, almost impossibly so, and when he finally does turn around, he's got his tin soldier face on, as bad as Russ has ever seen it. But: he talks, and Holly was right. As long as he's talking, Russ has something to work with. _He wants to tell you **something** , even if you don't know what it is._

"You think Jake knows something you don't," Milt says, weird and level and soft, "and you're wrong. He doesn't."

His hand is heading for the door again, but damned if Russ is going to let him get away with _that_ as an answer. "But you had this conversation with him," Russ tries. "Or—something like it, anyway."

"He said he wanted me to tell him when things bothered me," Milt agrees. "That he wanted to know when I was—struggling, or things were difficult for me, so that he could 'be there for me'."

Milt doesn't actually make finger quotes, but Russ can hear them in his voice anyway. "And then you broke up with him," Russ murmurs, half to himself. He realizes a second later that he's said it like a detective, like he's standing in front of the whiteboard trying to construct a timeline: investigating the cold-blooded murder of Milt's relationship—

"He said it, but he didn't mean it," Milt says. He's gone kind of pale, his face strained and odd around the eyes and mouth, but his tone is still unnaturally calm. "Nobody means it. First he wanted me perfect; and then he wanted me fucked up—but just a little bit. Just enough to take the shine off. Just enough so he could be sure I wasn't _really_ any better than he was."

The way Milt phrases it doesn't escape Russ's notice: _first he wanted me perfect_ , but Milt didn't break up with Hartley over that part. Because that part, Russ thinks, Milt gets. That part, Milt knows how to do. Wear the tie, follow the rules; remember anniversaries, plan special dinners; smile. It wasn't until Hartley asked for something Milt _wasn't_ perfectly comfortable faking constantly that Milt kicked him to the curb.

Which has to be the saddest fucking thing Russ has ever heard in his life. Russ stares down at his wet hands and breathes through his nose until he can form words that aren't _Sweet Mother of God, Milt, you must be so fucking lonely._ "Okay," Russ says slowly. "Okay, but. Milt. Milt, you've got to know I'm not like that."

It's so trite that Russ grimaces the second he says it, puts his hands to his temples and then scrubs them through his hair irritatedly.

"Aah, fuck, that didn't come out right," he mutters, and then sighs. "Look, I hate you, right?"

"You've mentioned," Milt agrees, very flat.

"So—so, okay. So I _already_ detest you. Like, to depths that can't be described by the laws of physics as we know them," Russ adds, because it's important to prevent any more misunderstandings here. "I despise you, I disdain you—I wake up sweating from nightmares that I've _become_ you and I feel _grateful_ to be the genius-detective-slash-greasy-angry-ball-of-interpersonal-failure that I am. I'm already two hundred percent sure that you're secretly the worst person I have ever met. So—" Russ shrugs, carefully nonchalant. "What am I going to do, hate you more? What have you got to lose?"

Milt stares at him without answering for a long moment, steady, even, almost blank-faced; and then Milt's brow twitches once, again, and then suddenly Milt's smiling—it's anemic, wobbly, nothing like his usual blinding toothpaste-ad bullshit, but it's definitely a smile. He looks down at the floor, shaking his head, and then looks back up at Russ and says, "Why, Detective Agnew, I think that might just be the most reassuring thing anyone's ever said to me."

Russ says, "Man, you _are_ fucked up."

Milt smiles again—a little better this time—and then he looks away and the smile slides off, leaving his expression grave and empty. "Yeah," he tells the bathroom floor softly—agreeing, Russ thinks. "Yeah."

"Well—good," Russ says. "Okay."

Milt looks at him.

"What? Weren't you listening to a word I said back there in the car?" Russ shrugs again. "Perfect is bullshit. Fucked up—fucked up is okay."

Milt's eyebrows draw together; not a frown, Russ thinks, not quite, but—confused, maybe. Uncertain. He doesn't believe Russ yet. But he _will_ , goddammit. Russ is going to beat this through Milt's thick skull if it's the last thing he does.

Although possibly they should finish dealing with the case first. Daniela's probably getting pretty sick of staring at the walls in Interview 2.

  


  


* * *

  


  


Hartley's still in the resident office when they get back, one hand reaching for Milt's phone. "There you are," he says easily, like he's not even a little bit annoyed by how they left him sitting there with nothing but a haphazard partial explanation of what Daniela had said. (Soulless. Alien. Robot.) "I was just about to call back to Detroit. Obviously we won't be arresting Velasquez, but they won't mind getting Liga Norte instead."

"If Daniela saw anything," Milt amends. "For all we know, she doesn't have anything we can use to nail them for Velasquez's murder."

"Well, if she does," Russ says, "she'll probably tell us. She's not Liga Norte's biggest fan—or she won't be, anyway, once we explain—"

But Milt's already shaking his head. "If she's too angry with Velasquez—"

"We have to tell her," Russ says, and holds eye contact with Milt until he can _see_ Milt picking up what Russ is putting down.

Milt swallows.

"She can't make the decision to put her life on the line for this without knowing what really happened," Russ adds, raising his eyebrows. _That's right, Milt, this **is** a meaningful parallel._ "We have to."

Milt looks away. "Okay," he says.

  


*

  


They keep it simple, and they don't just dive in. Not that there's much point trying to beat around the bush with Daniela—but Russ figures if they ease into it, she'll have it half-figured out on her own. People's brains work in weird-ass ways: she'll be angry, shocked, upset, but if he and Milt just make sure they aren't actually the ones to say, "Alejandro Velasquez kidnapped you and called you his daughter and lied to you," she'll probably be a lot less upset with _them_. Only amateurs blow interviews by giving suspects a reason to hate them.

Holly's just leaving when they get there; she holds the door open for Milt, and then beams at Russ approvingly as he passes her before she shuts them in behind her. She worked fast: Daniela has a new cup of water, half a sandwich from—Russ squints at the wrapping—the place two blocks down, and the largest bag of M&Ms the PD vending machines have to offer.

Milt sits down and smiles at Daniela, and this time it's not so plastic—warmer, and a little sorry. He opens the file, and, without preamble, starts pulling out photos, laying them down across from Daniela one at a time.

"This is Robert Taylor—and this is his wife, Maria. Robert Taylor's mother's maiden name was Benitez, and he had quite a few business and family connections in Mexico, which probably served him well when he first made contact with the Liga Norte cartel."

Daniela's listening politely, her face clearly saying she's not entirely sure what this has to do with her but she's willing to put up with it for a sandwich and some chocolate, until Milt says _Liga Norte_. Then her expression turns closed, wary—Velasquez _did_ tell her something, then, even if it was just to stay the hell away from anybody who said those words.

"He did some work for them on the side," Milt continues. "Nothing too heavy, mostly networking and distribution—things he could handle alongside his legitimate business interests without leaving much of a trail.

"Eventually, though, one of his cartel customers took a shine to him, and refused to run a deal without him as the contact. When it fell apart, Liga Norte wanted their money back, and Robert Taylor didn't give it to them."

"And?" Daniela says, crossing her arms again. "Why are you telling me all this?"

Milt stares at her for a long moment and takes a deep breath, but Russ is the one who reaches over and snags that good old mugshot of Andy Velasquez out of the folder. "The cartel had multiple assets they liked to call on to—resolve situations like this," Russ says as gently as he can manage. "One of those assets was Alejandro Velasquez."

Daniela looks at him, and then down at her dad's face, and then back at him, and doesn't say a word.

"On a Thursday in May nineteen years ago," Milt says, "they sent him to the Taylors' home to kidnap the Taylors' daughter," and this time the photo that comes out of the file is of a little girl, dark-haired and bright-eyed, maybe a year old. "Daniela Taylor," Milt adds, but by the look on Daniela's face, she doesn't really need the assist.

Daniela swallows. "And—and then what happened?" she says, gaze still fixed on the picture of the girl—of herself, except probably she's never seen herself looking like that. Odds are Velasquez didn't exactly amass a hefty collection of baby photos.

Russ exchanges a glance with Milt: Milt's eyes are shuttered, his jaw tense, and for once Russ decides to have mercy. "The Taylors were contacted about paying back their debt as ransom," he tells Daniela quietly, because Milt really really doesn't want to do it, and that's what partners are for. "Robert Taylor—wasn't interested in making a deal."

Daniela's eyes snap to Russ, and Russ looks away because Jesus, what a shitty thing to have to hear somebody say—your one dad is the guy who kidnapped you, and your other dad is the guy who didn't love you enough to care. Have a nice day.

"As far as we can tell," Russ adds quickly, "Velasquez—kept you. He left the area, left the state. He was trying to find somewhere to take you where he thought Liga Norte wouldn't find you."

Daniela laughs, strained, and Russ notices belatedly that she's still got the credit card, her fingers wrapped so tightly around it that it's going to leave a mark across her palm.

"Are you serious? The only person who gave a shit about what happened to me was the guy who _kidnapped_ me?"

"Look, he lied to you for a long time," Russ says, "and I get what that feels like—"

"Oh, _please_ —" Daniela snaps.

"My mom's a _con artist_ , kid," Russ says. "I spent my childhood in lies up to my eyeballs." He leans across the table and lowers his voice. "It's okay if you're mad at him. He had a rap sheet as long as my arm, and he did some really nasty shit, he was—he was fucked up."

Daniela snorts, but doesn't tell Russ to fuck off, which means it's probably safe to keep going.

"But even if you're mad," Russ says, "you should still remember that he cared about you a lot. And that doesn't make it okay, and you can keep being mad at him forever and nobody can stop you; but it's not nothing, either."

By tacit agreement, they give Daniela a minute. She's not crying or anything—Russ figures she will later, but right now it's too big to cry over. Some things are like that.

Eventually Milt clears his throat and then says, a little leadingly, "And Velasquez kept you both clear of Liga Norte for a while, but sooner or later they—caught up."

Daniela's still staring down at Velasquez's photo, but then she looks at Milt and nods. "Yeah—yeah. We spent a long time in Michigan, longer than anywhere else. That's how I met Jared." Her mouth quirks, wry. "I'm not much good at making friends, I never really learned how. But we were in Lansing so long that I had the chance to screw it up a few times and still keep trying."

Russ can see that. Jared Dunning seems like the kind of guy who gives people as many chances as they need.

"That's why I—when I left, he came with me. He told his parents he was going on a road trip for the summer, that he wanted to 'find himself' or whatever, and they—they thought he was going alone. I told him it was stupid to keep calling them, but he said it would be even stupider to not call and then have them freak out and put out an APB on him.

"And I know I shouldn't have brought it—" and she's talking about the card, Russ realizes, her fingers clenching and then relaxing around it, "but there weren't that many other things small enough. He had a whole box of them under the floorboards: papers, fake IDs, credit cards, everything. There wasn't anything else that he—that was his."

Christ.

"And why did you leave, Daniela?" Milt prompts.

Daniela is silent.

"We were looking for your father so we could solve this kidnapping, but that wasn't the only reason," Milt elaborates. "We were hoping that with something to charge him for, we could—"

"—make a deal, yeah," Daniela interrupts. "I know how it works."

"They came for him and they killed him," Milt says softly. "That's what you told us. Daniela—did you see them? Did you see them do it?"

Daniela's still for so long Russ starts to think she's just never going to answer; and then she starts to nod. Only a little bit, at first, a faint rock of the head, and then harder, and then she says, "Yes. Yes. I left so I could—find them, maybe, or figure out who they were, why my dad—" She stops talking so fast she nearly bites her lip—tripping over _dad_ , Russ thinks, but she doesn't take it back, either.

Milt leans across the table until he can touch sympathetic fingers to the back of Daniela's hand. "We can help you find them, if you'll let us. And you can help us take them down."

"Yeah, all right," Daniela says quietly. "All right."

  


  


* * *

  


  


Getting Daniela set up with protective custody and whatever other shit the FBI has in store is Hartley's problem, which means her time in good old Interview 2 is finished. Milt starts nattering at her about what to expect, and Russ gets up to open the door, but Daniela doesn't go through it. She turns around instead, back toward Milt. "Can I—"

She's reaching for the case file, the stack of photos on top, and Milt lets her flip through them until she comes to Velasquez's.

"Can I keep this?" she says. "I don't have—we didn't take pictures of each other. It was one of his rules."

Milt looks at her, expression opaque, and damned if Russ can tell what he's thinking. "Yes," Milt says eventually, low. "Yes. You can keep it."

  


*

  


With Daniela headed out to the Detroit office in Special Agent Hartley's revoltingly capable hands, somebody's got to figure out what to do with Jared Dunning, and that dubious honor becomes Russ's.

Milt lets Daniela and Jared say goodbye to each other outside the interview rooms, because he's a useless marshmallow, and then Russ tugs Jared aside by one elbow before he can go get himself officially released from police custody.

Daniela told him about her dad's death, that she was looking for the creeps who did it, but not anything about Liga Norte, which means Jared's probably safe without any federally-employed babysitters. But Russ gives him a Battle Creek PD contact card, and one of Milt's, too, just to be safe. "You think anybody's following you, or you see anybody suspicious, or anybody you don't know comes up to you asking about Daniela—"

"Then I call you, sure," Jared says, nodding. "I get the idea." He pauses and narrows his eyes at Russ, kind of defensively. "And you guys are really going to take care of her?"

He may be stupid, Russ thinks, but he's so goddamn protective it's kind of tough to hold it against him.

"Yeah," Russ says, "we're going to take care of her. Now get out of here—and call your parents."

While Russ is busy with Jared, Milt vanishes upstairs somewhere— _again_ —and this time Russ doesn't find him in the bathroom; or in Guz's office, or in the lobby, or out front. When Russ steps reluctantly into the resident office, all that's in there is Hartley, packing his files back into the box he brought them in and humming under his breath. ( _Humming_. Jesus.)

"Leaving so soon?" Russ snipes.

Hartley looks up and smiles that blinding professional smile, and the sour tone of Russ's voice just bounces off it. Maybe his alien robot teeth generate some kind of forcefield. "It'll be much easier to get Daniela set up and safe in our custody at the Detroit office," he says. "No time to waste—"

"Oh, spare me," Russ says, rolling his eyes.

Hartley closes his mouth obediently and smiles again; and for the first time it looks a little flat, even tired.

Which is probably why the next thing Russ says barely sounds antagonistic at all, despite Russ's best efforts: "Why did you even come here?"

"I'm sorry?" Hartley says, blinking. "The case—"

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Russ says, "but that wasn't the _only_ reason, was it? Don't try to tell me you didn't know this was where Milt got transferred to."

Hartley goes quiet—busted, Russ thinks—and his hands slow and then still over the box of files, and then he sighs. "I don't know," he says. "I don't know why—I don't know what I thought would happen." He looks away and shakes his head. "Milt's a great guy, and he deserves to be happy. I wanted to be the reason he was, but he wouldn't let me. Still won't," Hartley adds, rueful. "So I—I guess I hope sooner or later he decides to let somebody else."

Russ looks at him. Surely, somewhere underneath all that plastic and all those casual social lies, Hartley must be fucked up, too, just like everybody else—but maybe not enough. Milt's giving Russ plenty of trouble as it is, and Russ has at least a rudimentary grasp of what's going on. Hartley probably didn't even have that, and how's anybody supposed to face down Milt's mountain of bullshit without a shovel? Poor schlub, Russ finds himself thinking. Hartley had no idea what he was up against, no way to even begin to understand how to get to the heart of Milt's endless goddamn emotional legerdemain. "You're wrong about one thing," Russ says after a minute, not unkindly.

Hartley looks at him inquiringly.

"Milt's a shithead," Russ says.

Hartley huffs a laugh through his nose and shakes his head again as he lifts the box of files off Milt's desk. "You could be right," he admits, moving toward the door. And then he pauses just as he's about to pass Russ and adds—almost pointedly—"But then I have the feeling you know him better than I do, Detective Agnew."

He pushes the gleaming glass door open with his elbow and maneuvers the box through; and when he lets it close again behind him, it's just Russ, standing alone in the resident office, staring at Milt's desk.

  


  


* * *

  


  


It's Font who finally solves the mystery of Milt's disappearance for Russ; he's crossing the lobby as Russ leaves the resident office, and he notices the way Russ glances around, Russ's irritated frown, because of course he does.

"What's up?"

"You seen Milt anywhere?" Russ says.

Font gestures toward the door with the file in his hand. "With you guys finished up and Hartley leaving," he says, "I think he was planning to head out for the afternoon, he's—probably already in the parking lot—"

The last six words are shouted, because Russ is already hurrying away, waving a dismissive but also marginally grateful hand at Font as he goes. It's stupid, so stupid, because surely Milt can't possibly be making a run for it _again_ , for fuck's sake—but if he's not, then what's the rush? If he's not, then what possible reason could he have for not telling Russ he was leaving? And—

And it feels suddenly, weirdly urgent to not let Milt get away with it, like tomorrow's somehow going to be too late—like if he lets Milt get that dozen hours to think, any opportunity Russ had to really get through to him is going to slip away. Milt would have to be an idiot to try to hit the reset button again; but he was an idiot already for trying to hit it the first time this morning, so Russ wouldn't put it past him.

  


*

  


Milt _is_ in the parking lot when Russ gets there. In his car already, even, but he hasn't started it or driven anywhere; he's just sitting there. Russ has a hand half-raised to catch his attention, but in the end it isn't necessary: Milt spots Russ on his own. For a second, seeing Russ there, Milt looks tired, oddly vulnerable—and then he looks away and sighs visibly, buttoned up again. He swings his door open just as Russ skids to a stop on the sidewalk in front of his bumper, and says, "Can this wait until tomorrow, Russ?"

Which only makes Russ completely certain that it can't. If Milt _wants_ to put it off, all that means is that Russ can't let him. Russ got through to Milt back there in the bathroom, he _knows_ he did, and he needs to press the advantage, prise that crack as far open as he can before Milt has a chance to staplegun it shut.

" _No_ ," Russ insists, and stares at Milt pointedly until Milt gives in and gets out of the car.

"Look, Russ," Milt says, pinching the bridge of his nose, but Russ doesn't let him get any further.

"I talked to Hartley."

Milt's lips go thin. "For the last time, he can't tell you anything you don't already know—"

"Yeah," Russ says, "yeah, I know he can't. Look, I was mad at you the other day because I thought there was shit you weren't telling me, but I—I didn't know you hadn't told anyone else either, okay? I didn't know you'd never told _anybody_."

Milt's jaw tightens, but he doesn't say anything.

"And that's—man, that _is_ fucked up," Russ says, which is a huge understatement. "Come on, Milt, you can't live like that! Nobody can. You can't expect me to just let you keep on—"

"Oh, what the fuck do you know?" Milt bursts out, which is the truthiest Russ has ever heard him. "Lies up to your eyeballs, you said—no kidding. You lie to suspects all the time, you get pissed at me when I _don't_ , and now you think you've got the right to tell me—"

"That's different!" Russ shouts. "That's different and you _know_ it. I lie about the cases, I bluff them out, whatever—that's different. Unless you think talking to your partner should be the same as shaking down a perp, and if you do then I guess we don't have much more to say to each other."

Russ's voice gets increasingly quiet and shaky, and the last part sounds way more like a question than he wants it to—but Milt doesn't answer it. Milt just stands there, pale and silent, like he thinks the sidewalk next to the PD is suddenly a wax museum.

Russ puts his hands over his face for a second, steadying, and then scrubs them through his hair and tries again. "Look, why do you think Daniela asked you for that picture of Velasquez?"

Milt says nothing.

"Because it wasn't so she could use it for a dartboard, I'll tell you that much. We told her the truth about what he did, and yeah, she was mad—probably will be for a long time, and who could blame her? But—but, look, whether she knew about it or not, he'd already _done_ it all, right? She cared about him before, but it was just—it was by default. She didn't know there was any reason not to. Knowing and deciding to care about him anyway, that's— _that's_ real. _That_ means something."

"But she was happier—" Milt starts, and then stops, like those four words are the whole sentence he meant to say.

"Except she _wasn't_ ," Russ says. "It doesn't count if it's just because you don't know any better!"

Milt smiles thinly. "Oh, yes," he murmurs, "I'm sure Jake would have liked me much better if I'd been _worse_ —"

"Jesus, Milt, I'm not promising I'll _like_ you," Russ says. "Any more than I've ever expected you to like me! But wherever it is we end up, it'll be the _truth_."

Milt looks unconvinced.

Russ carefully doesn't tear his hair out. How many more angles can he invent to come at this from? "Look, I get it, okay? You think the lie's all you've got to give, and even that's not good enough. Everybody wants you perfect until you let them have it; and then they get sick of it and they want you normal, and when you can't give them that, they hate you. But, man, _I_ hated you perfect from the start, all right? I hated you perfect since the second I met you, because I never wanted your bullshit factory paint job in the first place. Whatever you've got underneath that, the—the rusty fenders, the leaky oil pan, the stripped gears— _that's_ what I want. I _want_ that, I want all of it," and fuck, that sounded way less weird inside Russ's head.

But Milt doesn't look like it sounded weird to him. Milt doesn't look like _anything_. Milt is wearing his beigest, most impenetrable face, and something about that horrible bland-ass expression— _now_ , right now, when Russ is trying to put it all on the line—makes Russ almost _angry_ , makes the wave of _Let me **in** , you asshole_ that he's been riding through this whole conversation crest and break in a rush. He's practically blind with it; he fumbles up to grip Milt's lapels mostly by feel, and then he fists his hands in the cloth— _wrinkle you up, you steam-pressed jackass_ , he finds himself thinking hazily—and pulls. Pulls, and then pushes, shakes Milt once and then again and shoves at him, except the wall of the PD building is right there and so Milt doesn't actually go anywhere.

"Russ," Milt says, reaching up to wrap his hands around Russ's wrists; and his tone is so friggin' neutral Russ could smack him. Does he still somehow not _get_ it?

It doesn't seem _possible_ —but Russ stares at Milt and feels his gut sink. This is _it_ , this is everything Russ has it in him to say, and it's still not working, it's still not enough. Milt's just sunk too goddamn deep in his own bullshit—

Except—except that isn't fair. What had Font said? _Especially when they've got no reason to think you'll stick around after._ Russ is asking Milt for things Milt doesn't want to give him, things Milt thinks are so ugly that he broke up with Hartley rather than let Hartley see them, and what's Russ giving him in return? Jack shit, is what. And Milt— _he took a huge risk_ , Milt had said about Velasquez. Disapproving, _condemning_ , when usually he'd be the first person on the Give Reformed Kidnappers A Hug train, because maybe he wasn't really talking about Velasquez when he said it.

This is a huge-ass risk, for Milt; and Russ can't ask Milt to take a risk like that without taking one just as big himself.

He's got to give Milt something Milt can walk away from him for.

"You _stupid asshole_ ," Russ grits out, heart pounding, because he wouldn't have to do this if Milt weren't so fucking scared for no good reason; and then he tugs Milt furiously forward and kisses him.

  


*

  


It's a weirdass kiss, because it's—Milt's attractive and all, Russ has said so out loud like three times, but that's not what this is really about, so as kisses go it's not all that hot. But it's more _important_ than any of the other kisses Russ has kissed in his life; and that's enough to make Russ's chest clench up, make his hands unsteady.

Still, never let it be said that Russ is half-assed about anything, even his mistakes: he commits long enough to make the point before he pulls away. He takes a half-step back and forces himself to look Milt in the face instead of letting himself linger on Milt's crushed lapels, or the ground, or—well, the pavement separating him from his own car, which is what he'd really like to be looking at right now, frankly.

And Milt—Milt doesn't sock him, or demand to know what the fuck he thinks he's doing, or cite him chapter and verse on inappropriate workplace conduct. Milt just stares right back at him, eyes round. His mouth looks about how Russ's feels: reddening, a little wet.

Russ clears his throat. "It's," he says, and then grimaces. "We—" but no, fuck, that's wrong, too. "I'm not going anywhere," he manages at last. "Do you get me? I'm—I'm not going anywhere."

He's not sure what Milt's going to get out of that, not sure whether Milt's going to think he's saying nothing or too much. But he's all out of words, and his throat's closing up oddly anyway; so he stands there, awkward as hell, like some fucking—stubbly-faced parking meter, and waits.

Milt stares some more. His hands are still hovering in the air, left behind when Russ pulled his wrists free of them; he blinks once, and then twice more, and then swallows. His brows draw together, and he swallows again and says, "You—aren't."

" _No_ ," Russ says, as emphatic as he can make it, and clenches his hands into fists in case that will make them stop shaking.

Milt stares at him a moment longer; and then he kind of folds up, right there on the sidewalk—just sits down, knees bent up, head bent down, hands linking up unsteadily over the back of his neck.

Russ waits a little more, just in case. But Milt doesn't say anything, doesn't move, and honestly Russ isn't all that great at waiting anyhow. For a second there, it was starting to feel like there was about fifteen miles between him and Milt—fifteen miles, fifteen states, a continent—but it only takes about three steps to put Russ next to him, and then Russ sits down, too.

They stay like that for a minute, which is actually kind of great—it gives Russ's knees a chance to quit feeling all wobbly, for one.

And then Milt's hands come down, and he turns his head toward Russ. "There's—I—I should tell you," Milt tries, and then grinds shudderingly to a halt, gears sticking; well, Russ wanted him with a leaky oil pan, Russ thinks a little hysterically, and then has to bite his lip so he doesn't laugh.

"Hey," he says instead, once he's got a grip. "Doesn't have to be today. You've got all the time in the world."

"Because—" Milt stops, wets his lips, and starts over. "Because you—aren't going anywhere."

"Give the man a prize," Russ mutters, and then, carefully, feeling exceptionally teenaged, puts one hand flat on the sidewalk between them.

Milt looks down at it. Equally carefully, he lifts his near hand and sets it down over top of Russ's—really gently, at first, like it's just sort of happened to alight there; and then, when Russ doesn't move away, harder, pushing down, the pavement biting into Russ's palm, like he thinks he can make sure Russ keeps his word by honest-to-God physically pinning him into place.

"Okay," Milt says, staring down at their hands. "Okay. That's good," he adds, and then drags his gaze back up to Russ's face. His jaw works a bunch of times without any words coming out, but his eyes, Christ—his eyes are wide open, and when he finally manages to say, "That's—I—I want that," half-strangled, Russ isn't surprised to hear it anymore.

Russ looks at him, how cracked-open he is, how hard he's trying, and is abruptly, sickeningly aware of how easy it would be to fuck this up—and terribly so, maybe even irreparably.

And then, all of a sudden, he realizes that he knows exactly what to do.

"Okay, Milt," Russ says. "I believe you."

 

**epilogue.**

The funny thing is, Russ lied, although admittedly it was by accident: Milt _doesn't_ have all the time in the world. He only has until Casey's dad tracks him down. The things Milt ends up saying during that incident aren't all of his weird, as Font would say; and he doesn't say them until he and Russ are locked in a trunk and about to die. But that he says them at all counts for a lot—enough that Russ can stand there bleeding from the head with a gun pointed at him and say Milt's his partner, and really truly _mean_ it, at last.

So Russ kissed Milt, and Milt told Russ the truth; and Russ thinks he's starting to understand what Font meant when he told Russ to think about _why_ —because the car trunk, all that stuff, it's enough for partners, but Russ still wants _more_. He wants to know everything, wants to know Milt better than anybody else, wants Milt to know _him_ better than anybody—which, well, shit. That explains a lot.

Russ leaves that idea simmering away on the back burner until the next Tuesday, which is when Milt gets out of the hospital. Milt can't drive with his shoulder like it is, and—and—

And Russ, just maybe, wouldn't want to let him go home alone even if he could. (Suck on _that_ , Font. "Stunted"—hah.)

So Russ picks Milt up. Milt looks half-surprised to see him, and then something in Milt's face around the eyes goes all weird and warm in a way that makes Russ need to clear his throat and say something insulting.

Russ spends the drive—well, okay, looking at the road; but at the stop signs and red lights, he looks at Milt and reaches for that back burner. Having Milt right there in front of him makes it even easier to tell: yeah. _Yeah_. Russ could probably take the door Milt's opened for him and make a one-nighter out of it, but he doesn't even want to do that. He can't find it in him to settle for _colleague_ , for fucked-when-you-weren't-supposed-to; he wants to figure Milt out, to gripe at him and fight with him and, okay, yes, fuck him—to find out what else Milt's still got shut up in there that hurts him, preferably _before_ it can blow up Milt's car or shoot him in the shoulder. All of it—Russ has never been interested in half-measures, and he's not going to start now.

About two minutes out from Milt's place, Russ realizes he's thoroughly freaked Milt out: Milt's staring pointedly out the windshield, unwavering, like there's a firing squad out there and they've reached _Aim_. Which is fair, because Russ has been thinking a lot of shit but hasn't _said_ anything, and they haven't actually talked to each other since the ambulance drove out of that cornfield, so God only knows what Milt thinks is going through Russ's head.

Better to leave it until they're inside, Russ decides; so they go the last two minutes in silence, but Russ tries to glance at Milt a little less often.

They walk up to the door in silence, too, and Milt unlocks it in silence—but he doesn't try to stop Russ from following him in. He just turns around, keys in hand, face blank, and waits.

Russ plucks the keys free and tosses them at Milt's freakin'—mahogany key tray, Christ, because Russ is about to try to talk a guy who owns a _key tray_ into screwing Russ and also maybe letting Russ buy him flowers. Jesus.

"How's the shoulder?" Russ says.

"Fine," Milt says with a quick, polite little smile, and _hell_ no, Russ is _not_ going back to that again.

"Liar."

Milt goes still.

"'Hurts like a motherfucker'," Russ coaches patiently. "Come on."

Milt stays frozen for a second, and then draws in a deep breath through his nose; when he lets it out, his shoulders ease—and then he winces. "Hurts like a motherfucker," he concedes, grimacing.

"He can be taught," Russ mutters, and rewards Milt by helping him slide the suit jacket off where it was draped over his shoulders to avoid fucking with his sling. "So, uh, look—" Russ gets out, and then gives in and lets himself turn away to flop the jacket onto the counter.

"Russ?" Milt prompts, when Russ fails to turn back around.

"So," Russ says again. "You—you maybe remember a couple weeks ago, how I—uh—I sort of kissed you in the parking lot?" Complete sentence achieved. Booyah.

"Yes," Milt says.

"At the time I was kind of mad at you," Russ admits, "and you weren't listening to me, and—yeah. So it occurred to me, the thing which you maybe didn't get out of that, it's—" Russ falters, because even if he could find the words to talk about all this, knowing and being known, trust and reaching out and hanging on, fuck him if he'll be able to _say_ them. But he's gotten this far, hasn't he? So he screws his eyes shut, takes a deep breath—and listens to himself say, with great sincerity, "it's that I really want to bang you."

Great. Fantastic. Good job, Russ's mouth.

Russ turns around and eases an eye open: Milt's still standing there like he's nailed down, expressionless, but now there's pink like a sunburn coming up hot on his cheekbones. "I see," Milt says, and then twitches in a way that tells Russ even he thinks that was a stupid response.

"But also—talk to you," Russ clarifies, and now _his_ face is getting all hot. "Or just sit there. Or—you know, tell you when you're wrong. Listen to you be wrong when you tell me I'm wrong. Be fucked up at you, and have you be fucked up at me—like, at normal times, not just when a guy who wants you dead has us in his trunk. Drink your last beer and have you yell at me for it, so then I have to drive really resentfully to the corner store at like eleven o'clock at night to buy more." Russ shifts his weight uncertainly. He's starting to run out of ways to word this. "Are you—do you get what I'm saying?"

"Yes," Milt says calmly, "I think so," and then he takes two long strides toward Russ and catches Russ's shirt up in his good hand, and Russ would back up except there's nowhere to back up to with the counter right there.

Russ puts a hand to Milt's chest, because Milt maybe hasn't thought this all the way through and he's not going to be able to ask afterward. "And you—you're sure."

Milt looks down at him thoughtfully, long enough that Russ kind of wishes he'd just shut his mouth and let Milt get on with it; and then Milt says, "You're a paranoid, angry, misanthropic jackass with a chip on your shoulder the size of a Buick. You'd rather punch broken glass than give anybody the benefit of the doubt, and I've lost count of the number of times you've as good as told me to my face that you wouldn't spit on me if I were on fire."

Russ blinks, shifting his weight. "Uh, yeah, about that—" he says uncomfortably, but Milt doesn't let him finish.

"But I saw your face when you thought he'd killed me." Milt pauses for a second, looking at Russ searchingly, and then says, low, "'Factory' isn't the only kind of paint job."

Russ stares at him, uncertain; and then feels his whole face turn what must be a really searing shade of red. "Uh," he says.

Milt tilts his head to one side. "I've never seen you turn that color before," he muses, as if to himself, and then leans in and kisses Russ before Russ can manage to get any actual words out.

  


*

  


Despite their pretty substantial combined years of experience with the act of kissing, it's weird as hell for the first five minutes. Russ is trying to be gentle and Milt is trying to be honest, and so basically they're both suddenly reduced to having no idea what the fuck they're doing. Then, on their stumbling way toward Milt's bedroom, Russ knocks over one of Milt's creepy spidery gooseneck lamps and swears into Milt's mouth, and Milt laughs into Russ's, and after that it's a lot better.

Not perfect: Russ stumbles halfway out of his pants and gets a swathe of rugburn in a nasty place when he skids on the landing. Milt's bed is the most terrifyingly Mordor-gray hospital-cornered tomb of a rectangle Russ has ever been asked to reach orgasm on. And Milt's shoulder means they can't try anything interesting, and even the boring stuff is like being in gridlock—they get to go about five miles an hour for about thirty seconds at a time, and then Milt grimacing or making a pained noise puts the brakes on while they try to figure out what hurt him and how to keep it from happening again.

Basically, it's completely fantastic. And, lying on Milt's scary bed afterward with Milt's head cutting off the circulation to his arm, one sock still on and one side of his ass stinging like a motherfucker, Russ thinks to himself that maybe Tuesdays aren't so bad after all.

  


  



End file.
